


Grazes with Added Salt

by poppyfx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, It's not really as sad as it sounds, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 11:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppyfx/pseuds/poppyfx
Summary: Varric’s head over feels for her; that much is clear to anyone who could see behind his carefully crafted witty dwarf -façade. Evelyn is one of the selected few who belongs to this group, and she also sees that he is the most important person to the famed Champion as well.The only thing is that she’s still in love with a dead man, he says.





	1. Evelyn

**i.**

 

Evelyn had other skills besides stabbing people in the back – literally – and hosting marvellous dinners for guests who rarely were anywhere near as important as they thought they were. Running across southern Thedas, all muddy and bloody and saving everyone’s asses, made people forget that she was actually lady Trevelyan, the youngest, pampered child of a wealthy aristocratic family with all the money in the world to use for her education. She knew several languages, too many complicated ball dances, the etiquette of all the royal houses who actually mattered, all the important works about politics, history, geography, and so on. Too bad her job description didn’t give her many changes to boast about her knowledge of Antivan heraldry, and so most of her skills that did not include demon-slaying were more often than not quite blatantly ignored.

 

Even the best tutors could not teach her the skills she truly excelled in – people.

 

No, she was not a diplomat like Josephine, or the spy like Leliana, but growing up in banquets and fancy dinners did not exactly leave her empty handed. She was fully aware of how people ignored her aristocratic background, dismissed it as something trivial – it was just smiling politely, gossips behind people’s backs, twenty course meals and extravagant dresses, right? In a way, yes. Evelyn was not afraid to admit she loved, even missed that life: perhaps it did not offer as many heroic actions as being the supposed saviour of the world, but in those gilded halls and uncomfortable outfits she _thrived_. That’s where she learned to read people, to use that knowledge. She never had any higher ambitions about her skillset – like Josephine and Leliana evidently had born with -, but a hidden skill was a skill nonetheless. She noticed cheating spouses, two-faced barons, the budding love with an unhappy ending before anyone else, but she had always been content with observing how the story unfolded before her eyes.

 

And that was it. Being the patient watcher of an unfinished play.

 

At least, that was supposed to be it.

 

From the first glance she saw Varric give to the woman on the battlement Evelyn knew what was going on, but of course the two of them only saw the Inquisitor, the woman with a nicely fitted suit and polite smile and big eyes filled with curiosity.

 

It was the small things, really. How Varric always at first pretended to be sick of speaking of Hawke and her great deeds, but still told the same things to anyone willing with eyes slightly glanced to the floor and the tip of his mouth just a fraction higher where his usual wry storyteller’s smile used to be. How he told Evelyn about Hawke’s arrival, just like one of his many stories, only to leave the room with slightly hunched shoulders like a nervous schoolboy. How his eyes left Hawke a bit too late when Evelyn arrived, and how a bit too quickly they returned back to the Champion.

 

Evelyn had always been the patient observer, just like she wanted. Varric Tethras’ longing and sad glances changed all that.

 

**ii.**

 

Oh, was there a fuss at the Champion’s arrival. Even though their meeting was supposed to be all hush-hush and clandestine, it quickly turned out to be all but that. Evelyn reminded herself to later yell at Varric not to set up super-secret meetings on battlements looking the central yard, but perhaps that was his intention all along. Soon Hawke was all everyone was talking about, and the overall morale was better than in months.

 

Yep. Varric definitely had set that up.

 

The only reason they had any sort of peace for a moment was that Hawke had left for a few days, delivering a message to Alistair, and most of the hold was still too busy gossiping about the Champion to remember that they even had an Inquisitor.

 

Varric was far from an open book, even when according to all laws of nature he should have neared alcohol poisoning, caused by their one and only Inquisitor. It had become increasingly clear that he was some sort of a freak of nature, with no sight of intoxication that she could see. Evelyn finally accepted defeat in silence, and discreetly waved her hand to Cabot, who seemed torn between seemingly endless flow of money and a poisoned dwarf in his tavern. He nodded begrudgingly, collected the emptied pints from their table, and pointedly didn’t even glance at them again before stomping away.

 

“I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work”, Varric sighed at Cabot’s furthering back. “You want to talk feelings – not gonna happen. Let’s just cut the crap, and agree that next you will say something nice and soothing with your nice and soothing Inquisitor Trevelyan voice, I deflect it with a witty return, you frown in disappointment and try once more, I remember something awfully important to do, and we never talk about this again.”

 

Evelyn relaxed in her chair and crossed her legs, but remained quiet. Varric did not look at her; he was too focused on following Cabot back to the bar. He shook his head in disappointment, cursing.

 

“Dwarven metabolism, I presume?” Evelyn asked, her smile slightly crooked and amusement in her eyes.

 

“Nah. Just the world-famous Tethras metabolism. Side effects include witty banter, extravagant lies and great chest hair.”

 

“Finally the mystery is solved.”

 

“Hate to break it to you, but it really is just a way to distract you and the whole world from what crap my mouth says. You too spend waaaay too much of your time just staring at it, eyes up – “

 

“You’re in love with Hawke.”

 

She had never heard Varric being silent for more than ten seconds, not to mention about abruptly shutting up, but it seemed she had found a way to do just that miracle. Varric stared at her, mouth open in surprise and with a stiff posture, before he chuckled.

 

“You truly are something, Inquisitor.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since you were arrested with a magical mark.”

 

“You know what I’m talking about.”

 

“I do, and we are not talking about this.”    

 

“Do I have to use my nice and soothing voice?”

                            

“Evelyn. Stop it.”

 

She did. Varric never called her by her first name, nor asked her to do anything plain and simple. When he was in a particularly good mood, he usually used the way too long “Your Inquisitorialness.” Occasionally she was “Evie”, or “my lady” with a wink and a grin, but usually she was just “Trevelyan.” He always twisted his clever words, made fun of people in a discreet manner, and most of the time when he stopped being a curious observer and actually voiced his opinion, in his roundabout way, people stopped and listened. But he never used their real names and simply _asked_.

 

Evelyn bit her lip nervously and tried to catch his eyes, but determinedly his gaze was fixed on the table.

 

“I’m sorry I asked, Varric”, she said and pushed her chair backwards to leave. Varric sighed and shook his head.

 

“She’s still in love with a dead man. No competing with that.”

 

“Ah. I see.”

 

Evelyn had noticed how quickly Hawke had changed the topic from Anders, but just like she thought was logical, she had assumed it was because the said man had killed hundreds in an explosion that started this whole fucking war in the first place. That was not exactly something to boast about, so no wonder Hawke had seemed uncomfortable, even if she had no hand in it. Varric let out a hollow laugh.

 

“It’s been four years, and it’s still so obvious. She still has that exactly same look on her face as when knifed him in the back, the same miserable smile and those same unfocused eyes. You know that after we left the gates of Kirkwall she didn’t say his name for weeks? And she’s still the same. Now at least she can say his name without nearly murdering everyone in vicinity in a rage fit, so that’s something.”

 

He finally looked at Evelyn and shrugged. “I know that she seems normal, at least to you. But she’s not. She was… clever. With words. She graced everyone present with a one-liner too witty and accurate to the point when everyone wanted to smash her teeth in. But she was nice too, to those who mattered, anyway. She did what she wanted and took what she wanted, took no one’s shit. Selfish, brutal, and the best friend a dwarf could hope for.”

 

He reached over to Evelyn’s pint and finished it with no protest from her side. “Now she’s all meek and obedient and ready to save the world. That’s not her. Not Hawke.”

 

With some people Evelyn might have reached over the table and took his hand, or offer consoling words with her nice and soothing voice, but with him she remained still and quiet. Varric stood up and left without saying a word, and next morning he was back in front of his fireplace like nothing had ever happened.

 

**iii.**

 

It was supposed to be another quick visit: just give the news and back to whatever Hawke was normally doing. Alas, being located in the mountains did pose a risk of avalanches, and so the Champion was stuck in Skyhold for at least a day or two. Hawke didn’t seem to mind the news, but at the same time Varric turned out to be an awfully busy man.

 

Mostly she kept to herself, wandering the grounds and battlements, sneaking food off the kitchen (that she could have just asked for, but apparently it wasn’t her style to just ask when one could steal), giving gambling tips to pretty much every game in existence ( _“The Champion’s Tale”_ clearly did not exaggerate how much they spent in the Hanged Man), drinking Cabot’s worst ales, and overall going to extreme lengths to avoid people. If someone happened to catch her, she was charming enough, at least until the other person expressed too much interest in her history, at which point she presented several imaginative maiming possibilities for her new acquaintance. The scariest part was that she never seemed angry: never raised her voice, never became violent. Instead she told her bloody intentions casually, like talking about the weather or how shitty the food was, and there was no doubt if she truly meant her words. Overall, her days in the keep were a mixture of excitement and sheer horror for the troops.

 

And that was what Varric had described as “meek Hawke.” Evelyn didn’t even want to think about what kind of a woman she had used to be.

 

She caught Hawke stabbing idly at one of the training dummies, looking utterly bored, and she thought to at least give a moment of her time to the Champion. They hadn’t really had a chance to speak at her last visit besides casual pleasantries and a few not-so-subtle dodges from Hawke’s part about her personal history, and Evelyn did hate not knowing the people in her hold. Of course she had read the book, just like every single person in Thedas, but she also knew how much Varric loved his lies and exaggerations to take it as a factual biography. Evelyn took a deep breath, straightened her jacket and approached the other woman, hoping for the best.

 

Hawke caught her approaching and suddenly gave the dummy a furious strike to its chest, giving the Inquisitor an amused smirk.

 

_Ah. This was going to be a fruitful friendship._

 

“Busy?” Evelyn asked with her most polite and impersonal tone she had perfected for years, knowing fully well how much the Champion was going to hate it. She did not want them to be enemies, even if for just Varric’s sake, but that didn’t mean they had to become dear friends either. Hawke could be witty and charming when she wanted to, but apparently Evelyn did not fall into that category of people who deserved that treatment from her.

 

“Just enjoying this perfectly wonderful day”, Hawke answered, and it was quite clear to Evelyn that the other woman’s day was neither perfect nor wonderful. She could have enquired further, but the knife still stuck to the straw dummy implicated that her questions should be kept to herself.

 

“How are you enjoying Skyhold so far?”

 

“It’s quite impressive. I’m especially enjoying those ventilation windows you have all over the place and the lovely antique furniture. It’s all quite… rustic”, Hawke smiled with the same exact smile Evelyn had: perfectly proper and nonchalant, used only for the dullest of guests. Evelyn couldn’t help but let out a chuckle: they were both Freemarcher nobles in the end.

 

Hawke’s mocking lopsided grin turned into a full-fledged smile and she waved her hand high up in the air. Evelyn turned to look behind her, only to see Varric descending the great stairs from the main hall. He looked at them and gave a pathetic little wave back before grapping passing Blackwall’s arm and dragged him towards the lower courtyard. The Warden shot an alarmed glance at Evelyn, clearly as confused as she was about this development. The two men had changed some words in their ventures, but their conversations could be counted with one hand, at least to Evelyn’s knowledge. When they had disappeared out of sight, she turned back to the other woman.

 

If before Hawke had looked unwelcoming, now she looked downright murderous.

 

“Are you alright?” Evelyn asked uncertainly, dropping all the ice and false politeness from her voice.

 

Hawke smiled widely as if nothing had happened. “Just peachy”, she said and struck another knife straight to the dummy’s throat.

 

**iv.**

 

She got him watching Hawke – again. Evelyn had stopped counting the looks days ago. It wasn’t always a longing romantic gaze Evelyn secretly hoped it to be. Sometimes it was just a look of utter confusion, with frowned eyebrows and occasional shaking of his head or mutters. Other times it was just pure grief, meant for Hawke who both was and wasn’t there. A few times he’d looked angry, and Evelyn was quite certain it was anger directed for Varric himself. He hadn’t talked about what had happened with Hawke before, why they weren’t adventuring the world together, but the end result was always that Varric was still saving the world with the Inquisition and Hawke was who knows where, alone and dejected. After that look Evelyn always made sure to keep the ale flowing; Varric, of course, knew what she was doing, but always said nothing at all.

 

All those different looks still had the same meaning, and no one else seemed to notice.

 

“Varric”, she started carefully and pushed her tankard towards him in a premature peace offering. He raised his eyebrow in question. “Why are you avoiding Hawke?”

 

Varric snorted ungracefully and pulled the tankard closer. “What on earth gave you that expression?”

 

Evelyn gave him a very disapproving look, but it had never worked before, and this time proved was no exception. “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

 

“It suits me just fine, your Inquisitorialness”, he answered and purposely looked away from her.

 

Evelyn liked Varric: she really did. He was one of her closest friends and strangest advisors/life coaches imaginable, but sometimes she just felt like grapping his stupid ponytail and slamming his head to the table, preferably multiple times in succession. This was definitely one of those times. Yes, Varric didn’t exactly wear his heart in his sleeve, but what he was doing was just making him and Hawke miserable, and he must have known that as well.

 

“Come and talk to me when you finally stop wallowing in self-pity”, she sighed and left the table. At the door she heard Varric’s voice calling for her weakly, but at the moment Evelyn just couldn’t stand looking at him even for a second more.

 

**v.**

 

One mystery solved: he thought Hawke was pretty.

 

He didn’t exactly use those words with dreamy eyes, but it was close enough. Varric was telling another story from Kirkwall, this time about a noble suitor Hawke’s mother had found her. The whole story ended with the Coterie attacking during dessert, Hawke jumping over the table, slashing three throats, stabbing one in the eye and kicking the last one out of the balcony, and finally resumed enjoying her lemon cake amongst the corpses – and her mother’s piece too, as lady Amell had passed out screaming out a while ago. Varric told how the possible suitor, surprisingly enough, wasn’t that taken about Marian, even though she had decent enough table manners, had just proven herself an excellent fighter, and “was not a bad-looking woman.”

 

Those listening to his story burst out laughing at the last description, clearly thinking it another one of Varric’s not-so-subtle jokes. What they missed, however, from their laughing, was the tiny twitch between his eyebrows and the half a second of silence before he chuckled and continued with another marvellous story.

 

Evelyn hadn’t missed that; by now she was getting quite good at reading his reactions, no matter how much he tried to hide them. She laughed with the others and for a moment caught Bull’s eyes, who tilted his head towards the dwarf and looked back at her. He had noticed the same thing, and knowing his quite extensive tastes in his paramours, Bull probably even agreed with Varric.

 

Hawke wasn’t exactly ugly, not really. Evelyn had seen worse-looking people in her life, to be sure. If Hawke had been born in a high-class family, doing nothing more strenuous than lift a fork to enjoy another ten-course meal and wearing nice clothes, she might even be considered attractive; but that was not the real Hawke. Instead of fancy dresses and extravagant hair-dos she had skin ruined by too much sun, a nose broken multiple times, scars anywhere eyes could see, all that in a small body that was meant and trained for killing, not for society balls.

 

At least, that was what she thought until Hawke’s final day in Skyhold.

 

**vi.**

 

The workers had returned and told that the way down the mountain was clear again, but even Hawke wasn’t daring enough to do that journey so close to dusk. She was sitting next to the practice ring eating a basket of food she had pilfered from the kitchens when Evelyn found her, watching the Chargers’ practicing and blaspheming the Maker amused.

 

“Having fun?” Evelyn asked and leaned against the wall next to her.

 

Hawke didn’t remove her eyes from the Iron Bull who was clearly making a show for his audience, flexing his muscles and casually waving his great sword like it weighed nothing. “Just enjoying the show”, she grinned and offered Evelyn a muffin from her basket of stolen goods.

 

Bull pat Krem on the shoulder, left the ring and sat next to Hawke. She shamelessly appraised him and nodded approvingly, especially after he leaned back on the stairs to give her a better view with a wink.

 

“If only the tal-vashoth in Kirkwall I killed would’ve used _that_ strategy”, she said and for a while got lost in her thoughts, and judging by her expression they were especially good thoughts indeed.

 

“Killed a lot of tal-vashoth then?” Bull asked.

 

Hawke laughed in delight. “Oh, _tons_. Tough bastards, I give them that. Good times”, she added almost as an afterthought, clearly delighted of the memories.

 

The qunari didn’t seem to mind in the least how she remembered fondly killing his former countrymen, and even shared one of his own tales about the tal-vashoth he hunted in Seheron. Hawke especially seemed to like the interrogation part, which nearly made Evelyn vomit, but it turned out to be Bull’s favourite scene as well.

  
_Mercenaries_ , Evelyn thought and shook her head disgusted.

 

“So, Champion”, Bull started with one hand absentmindedly juggling a muffin in the air. “How did you actually manage to kill those tal-vashoth? No offense, but you are kind of small in size compared to the qunari. Were you trained?”

 

“Kind of”, Hawke answered while watching Grim struggling in Krem’s headlock. “I was ten years in the Fereldan army. Joined when I was fifteen, though most of that we just harvested potatoes, guarded sheep and got drunk around the campfire”, she smiled fondly before her face turned grim. “The first big battle was Ostagar. Didn’t really feel like it, so I grabbed my baby brother and went home.”

 

“You’re a deserter?” Evelyn intervened in surprise. The Tale of the Champion certainly did not mention that part: she and the whole Thedas thought she was just a survivor of the massacre.

 

“Umm, yeah”, Hawke said with no shame in her voice, looking slightly annoyed at Evelyn’s reaction. “I might not be the smartest person around, but even I knew we were never going to win. And oh, look at that! – they’re all dead and I’m still alive. What a coincidence.”

 

“So you beat tons of qunari because you guarded sheep for a decade”, Bull said. Evelyn looked at him annoyed: it was quite obvious that he wanted to change the topic and not give the two women a chance to yell at each other like they clearly wanted to. Hawke looked a bit startled but didn’t press further.

 

“Well, after that I spent the next seven years as a mercenary, adventurer and jack of all trades, you might have read about that”, she grinned. “And these last four years as a living legend and a rebellion figurehead. Quite boring stuff, I know.”

 

“Quite”, Bull answered and casually puffed his chest much to the Champion’s delight.

 

That’s when Varric exited the main hall and looked down at them.

 

_Shit_ , Evelyn thought.

 

The dwarf looked at them for a few seconds too long before waving end returned right back where he came from. And that was it.

 

Hawke continued looking at the stairway with furrowed brows and only returned from her thoughts when Bull slapped her shoulder a bit too hard. She nearly fell down the stairs and instinctively protected the food basket before shooting the qunari an irate look.

 

“How about sparring?” Bull asked, her hand still on Hawke’s shoulder. She seemed uncertain for a moment before Bull leaned closer to her and with a big smile continued with a husky voice: “You get to hit and kick me as much as you like.”

 

That settled it. The hesitation was lost from Hawke’s face immediately and replaced by almost childlike joy.

 

“Oh, you do know how to treat a lady”, she said and sprang to her feet.

 

That’s how Bull soon found himself in the practice ring with a woman who had half his size but double the confidence. She was practically bouncing up and down with excitement, putting up a show with her knife-handling skills for the audience and demonstrating her skills in qunari curses and taunts with a surprisingly good accent, judging my her massive opponents approving laughs.

 

It was strange how two people can fight so differently with the same weapons. Evelyn and Hawke were both Free Marchers, where dual blades were often the go-to weapon especially among the upper classes, but it was clear which one of them was trained by a court-approved private tutor and which by merely surviving. Evelyn had been taught the exact locations of where to strike; the arteries, the vital organs, how to get the opponent quickly and effectively out of the fight while still attaining all the graceful movements that a noble needs.

 

The other woman had two daggers, wooden and dulled of course, and that was where the similarities ended. Hawke slashed where she could, hit where she could reach, kicked and punched and threw sand to Bull’s eyes, targeted his eyes and throat and knees and groin, even pretended to bit him once after jumping to his back. She was so alive in a way Evelyn could never be, a laughing and swearing bloody mess.

 

Before Evelyn could not understand what Varric had meant when he described Hawke as pretty. Now she could see what he meant, and she couldn’t wait to see his thrilled smile when she finally told him that.

 

**vii.**

 

The Chargers went back to the tavern and Hawke was alone again. Well, almost alone, as she did not turn to look at Evelyn but looked at literally everything else in sight.

 

The thing about Hawke was that Evelyn had no reason to hate her, except the threats she was never going to go through with anyway. She was a great asset to the Inquisition, with good connections and martial prowess, and she could occasionally be even civil – not to Evelyn, but to most people at least. But she also had no reason to really like Hawke either. The woman was crude, violent, with too much love for cheating, gambling, drinking and being as antisocial as possible.

 

However, to Evelyn the most important thing about Hawke was that she was the woman Varric Tethras had for some strange reason fallen in love with.

 

The two women were no friends: it was no secret. Evelyn did think herself as a generally good person, but she cared less about how Hawke’s misfortunes and unhappiness affected herself rather than what impact it had on Varric. Hawke could be a depressed, drug addicted prostitute for all she cared, as long as she still made Varric happy. It was selfish: Evelyn knew that alright. But she could not stand still watching how one of her best friends was miserable and lonely when the woman he had wanted for a decade was just next to him, waiting for Varric to even look at her without running away.

 

“You two need to sort this thing out”, she said tensely.

 

Hawke huffed and shook her head. “He doesn’t even want to talk to me, so there will be no ‘sorting out’, I’m afraid. I guess he disapproves of my life choices.”

 

_Most likely Varric disapproves his own life choices_ , Evelyn thought and sighed in exasperation. Of course Hawke had no idea of the truth, being as dense as she seemingly was, and it was as if Varric tried to worsen the situation on purpose. How on Earth did he manage without Evelyn in his life?

 

“I’ll get him to talk”, Evelyn mumbled. Hawke looked at her with a curious expression. “I’m the damn Inquisitor, I can make him dance naked in the moonlight if I wish”, she laughed. Well, at least in theory she could. In reality he had a crossbow and a mean aim, so better not risk it.

 

Hawke sat legs crossed at the bottom of the stairs and was fishing for the last crumbs from her stolen basket. “Well, good luck with that.”

 

A huge crash and subsequent laughter erupted from the tavern, making both of them look up toward the noise. They couldn’t see a thing but Cabot’s furious shout made both of them grin before they remembered to continue their hostile relationship. Hawke turned back to her basket with a small smile on her lips.

 

“Trevelyan”, she started almost nervously. “Thanks. For being a good friend for Varric.”

 

Evelyn just had to raise her eyebrows in surprise; the other woman sounded sincere and polite for the very first time the two of them had talked to each other. To be honest, Evelyn really hadn’t made an effort to do so either, and Hawke being the bigger person did not feel good for the youngest child of a certain Ostwick noble house.

 

“Oh. Um. You’re welcome, I suppose”, she answered in bafflement. “So why all the death threats then?”

 

Hawke bit her lower lip and hugged her dear basket, not looking at Evelyn. “Just ‘cause.”

 

“In my defence, it was Cassandra who kidnapped him.”

 

“What? Oh, that. Cassandra’s cool, we’re totally buddies now.”

 

“Oh. Okay?”

 

“It’s just that you’re fighting demons and shit”, Hawke grunted. “He’s here and I’m not and I hate how comfortable he’s with you and not with me.”

“You’re jealous?”

 

“He’s my best mate”, Hawke snapped and looked at Evelyn with her ice blue eyes. “Ever since I met him, from day one. And while you’re good for him, you also put him in danger and I’ll fucking flay you if he gets hurt.”

 

“If something happens to you, I might even let you.”

 

Evelyn had no illusions that she wouldn’t go through with _that_ threat. Mostly Hawke was just bark, no bite, but in this case she was sure to make an exception. Hawke seemed visibly calmer at the right answer and smirked back at her.

 

“Wanna hear something funny?”

 

_No. Not really_. _Hawke’s jokes had a strange tendency to have the punchline be about a certain Ostwick noblewoman, so thanks but no thanks._

 

“Sure.”

 

“I did it all for the money”, Hawke laughed dryly. “Well, like 90 percent of it. Five percent was just me being a bloodthirsty bitch, and the other five were mostly moments of weakness when someone actually managed to remind me that I do have a conscience; annoying little thing, that. I just wanted to make a living, give my mother and sister a home. Then I met Varric, got filthy rich, and some people realized that I was _really_ good at killing people. Things just got out hand, really. I was happy in that shitty Lowtown hovel,” she murmured the last words barely audibly.

 

“Want to hear something funny as well?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I did all because I have a green, magical thingy in my hand.”

 

Hawke finally turned to look at her. “Really.”

 

“Really”, Evelyn confirmed with a smile. “I liked my life in Ostwick: it suited me. Then my religious parents though to send me to the conclave, and suddenly I’m a military figurehead. A year ago I was eating lemon cakes in our parlour, but sometimes life just fucks you up.”

 

“Do you like this? This whole Inquisition thing?”

 

Evelyn shrugged. “It’s fine. I have a purpose, friends, money and fame. This might not be the life I wanted, but it’s my life regardless, so no point in complaining about it.”

 

Hawke plain right stared at her like she had suddenly grown horns and extra limbs. Her puzzled face was near comical and without her background Evelyn would have certainly burst out laughing, but she managed to turn that into a friendly smile. Hopefully, at least.

 

“It’s your last day at Skyhold. You should come to the tavern tonight”, Evelyn said and actually meant it. Every day she had said it out of mere politeness, knowing that the Champion wouldn’t come anyway, but tonight was different for both of them. They might not become friends, but she would happily settle for civil if that was fine with both of them.

 

Hawke looked past her at nothing at particular for a while deep in thought. Then she finally bit her lip and nodded. “Alright. Yes. I’ll… yeah.”

 

“See you there, Hawke.”

 

“I still don’t like you,” the Champion smirked.

 

“I can live with that”, Evelyn said with a warm smile.

 

**viii.**

 

“What can I do for you, your Inquisitorialness?” Varric asked and put his quill down. Evelyn leaned over the table to look at the papers in front of him and smirked: Cassandra would love this.

 

“You’re coming to the tavern tonight”, she stated and pulled out a chair for herself. Varric looked suspicious.

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Because I said so.”

 

“Right.”

 

“And because I am your friend, and I know what is good for you.”

 

“I suppose this has nothing to do with Hawke?”

 

“Oh, it most certainly does.”

 

Varric huffed and leaned back on his chair. Underneath the disapproving look on his face Evelyn could see a hint of something else: nervousness, fear, uncertainty. He never came to look for her after their last private conversation, just like she thought.

 

“Listen, Varric,” she started and snapped her fingers across the table to get his attention. “She’s your best friend, and she’s lonely and she needs you. You might feel bad for leaving her alone, but she most certainly doesn’t have any hard feelings. Don’t even _try_ to tell me you haven’t noticed how happy she is when you’re around and what a pain in the ass she becomes when you run away. So just stop acting like a guilty child, and just talk to her like a normal person. Please.”

 

He tapped his fingers against the table top silently.

 

“And about what you saw today”, she started and smiled a little when Varric instantly turned to look at her, “it was just talk with Bull. Sure, there were appreciating looks and all that, and he did make quite a blunt offer to her that certainly made my ears turn red, but that’s it. She just laughed it offed and said it wasn’t what she was looking for, and they went back to hitting each other with sticks.”

 

“ _Huh_. Interesting”

 

Evelyn couldn’t help but chuckle at his expression. Varric always tried to ooze an aura of nonchalance and confidence, even know when they were alone. Of course he didn’t succeed; he was quite obviously relieved and in much better spirits than a minute ago, but maybe he didn’t need to know that Evelyn knew that as well.

 

“I get what you mean now”, she said. Varric raised his eyebrow as a question, not understanding what she suddenly had to say. “That Hawke’s not a ‘bad looking woman.’ She’s quite something, in battle. The way she moves, taunts and laughs – it’s… stunning, even.”

 

“My my, did you think I’m a liar?” Varric asked with a chuckle and leaned forward towards to her.

 

“Of course you are!” she exclaimed, laughter in her eyes, but continued with a fonder smile: “But not when it comes to her.”

 

The usual charade of a carefree storyteller disappeared, and for the first time Evelyn could for certain see just him, without any tricks or lies. “No. I guess not”, he said and gave her a true smile, a sight she knew she was going to miss as soon as it ended.  

 

“So I’ll see you at the tavern?”

 

Varric grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

 

**ix.**

 

“It seems like I’m missing something”, Evelyn huffed and looked sceptically around the table when Hawke collected her winnings - again. Unfortunately Wicked Grace was not a part of her first-class private tutoring, as a relatively unpopular game in Ostwick in general. As it happens, Ostwick also happens to be the only state in the entire Thedas where greased cheese wheel races were the number one mode of gambling. A miraculous coincidence, indeed.

 

Varric startled, being too focused on pretending as if he hadn’t been staring at Hawke the whole night. He looked at Evelyn, barely remembering she was even there, as if he didn’t even remember she was even there anymore. It he was someone else she might have felt insulted for being forgotten, but this was Varric. The lying, cheating, wonderful Varric, who finally was where he was meant to be.

 

“Probably all the cards Hawke has spirited away”, Varric answered with a grin and cocked his head to the right. Hawke feigned an exaggerated shock and gasped.

 

“Wha – how dare you! As you very well know, I’m a virtuous Free Marcher noble, and thus well above cheating”, she announced theatrically.

 

“You still don’t know how to eat with a knife and fork, Hawke”, he grinned.

 

Evelyn couldn’t help but grin with him. For a while it had seemed like the night was going to be an epic disaster, with the two best friends giving each other nervous looks, not sure how to continue after a long time apart, but luckily Hawke started to vent her frustration by increased cheating, which seemed to amuse Varric to no end. Of course Evelyn had no chance of catching her, being an absolute disgrace at the game, but she could guess what was going on from Varric’s snickering and Bull’s approving nods. However, even she knew what the game was about; not about winning, but about Varric and Hawke, and so their charade of a game continued without interruptions.

 

“That is a blatant and a vicious lie”, Hawke said looking offended, clearly having trouble holding back a grin. “It’s just that I have _principles_ , Varric, a concept you clearly are not acquainted with. I’m a woman of the people, and I should act like one, not some prissy noble with silver platters and knives and forks and fancy accents.”

 

“You are a woman of great contradictions, noble Waffles.”                          

 

Bull nearly spat out his ale. “Waffles?”

 

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “What, you think you people are the only one with nicknames, Tiny?”

 

“Nah, Varric probably gave a nickname to his nursemaid too”, Bull said. “But just… Waffles?”

                            

“Purely based on my sweet nature and my sheer adorability”, she stated and nonchalantly waved her hand. Across the table snickers were hear: Hawke was many things, but with all the scars and a nose broken too many times, combined with the numerous threats every single participant in the table had witnessed, “adorable” wasn’t one of them.

 

“Also based on a certain someone’s unrivalled ability to hog waffles”, Varric added. Hawke nodded furiously.

 

“I fear you all have been clearly misinformed about the whole Champion thing. In fact I just happened to win the highly prestigious Waffle Eating Championships, and the title just stuck. Varric just made something a bit more publishable up for his silly little book; disappointing, I know.”

 

“Sure thing, Waffles,” Bull said and winked his only eye. “Now – a nice change of subject, but how about those missing cards?”

 

“Oh, Maker’s balls”, she grunted and threw her cards back to the table. Varric took the cards to himself and clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

 

“Waffles, Waffles, Waffles – what do we have here?” he asked. Hawke scoffed and crossed her arms. “Nine cards, when the rules say five. And three Angel of Deaths? First, you’re supposed to show it immediately when picked up. And second, there is only _one_ in the whole deck. What where you even trying here?”

 

“Bugger off”, she said with a smile and pushed him away. “You all were cheating, anyway.”

 

“I’m pretty sure the rest of us were innocent as new-born babes”, Varric said, everyone full well knowing that she was exactly right.

 

“Come on, Champion. Pay up”, Evelyn said and put out her hand along the others, all crooking their fingers expectantly. Hawke sighed melodramatically.

 

“Alas, being the Champion of Waffles isn’t as prolific as it sounds. I’m a mere penniless vagrant, alone and hungry in the world, and quite coincidentally needing to leave right now.” With the last words she pushed her chair back and stood up.

 

“You really should stay the night”, Evelyn said with her best concerned Inquisitor voice, which had proven to be miraculously successful, but even that wasn’t enough.

 

“Bah! I should’ve left hours ago, to be honest. I promised Alistair I’d meet him in the morning, and he can be reeeally cranky in the mornings. Wouldn’t risk it.”

 

“Have it your way”, Evelyn smiled. She and Varric also left the table to walk Hawke out, leaving the rest of the players looking after the Champion with mixed amusement and annoyance from their lost money that loudly clunked in Hawke’s pockets.

 

“Let’s not avoid each other for the next three years, that clear?” Varric said and raised his eyebrows in a question. Hawke grinned and finished buttoning her overcoat, a shabby and dirty thing that did not suit the hero of all the tales.

 

“So you do care about me, after all”, she asked in an over-the-top surprised voice. “What a surprise! Couldn’t have guessed after reading your book.”

 

“Oh? It wasn’t to your tastes? I hear it’s quite a masterpiece, but I’m open to constructive criticism.”

 

Hawke flashed a wide smile. “You did take some creative liberties with your portrayal about me. There was almost nothing about my good will, acts of heroism and magnanimous nature. It was very stabby-stabby, to be honest.”

 

“You do stab a lot of people, Hawke”, Varric shook his head.

 

“Just the bad guys and the ones who look at me funny. Just like any decent person would do, to be honest.”

 

“ _A lot_. Just sayin’.”

 

“I knew you never liked me”, Hawke said and slapped Varric gently on his cheek, earning a chuckle from him. “It was good seeing you. Really”, she continued with none of the earlier sarcasm, her voice only meant to be heard by him.

 

Evelyn felt like she was intruding something she was never meant to be a part of, but found no way of politely leaving the scene, so she opted for the second option: trying to be as invisible as possible. Varric nodded at Hawke, his eyes staring at the ground for a long while before he managed to collect his trademarked coy smile back to his face. Evelyn didn’t buy it, Hawke surely didn’t either, but the Champion still managed to look happy. Evelyn would never understand their game of balancing between excessive banter and jokes with true feelings, but Varric looked so damn happy that she didn’t even really care.

 

Hawke finally turned to leave, smiling at Varric one more time without goodbyes, when they all heard a voice from one of the tables.

 

“ _Goddamn whore.”_

 

Those two words were whispered loudly, with just enough volume to reach the front-door but low enough be taken as an unfortunate accident. Hawke turned back with a surprised look on her face, and Evelyn didn’t miss how Varric flinched.

 

“Did I do something to you?” Hawke asked from the doorway with a patient voice. The whole silent tavern switched their eyes between her and the drunken man who still managed to look at her defiantly. The drunk, a soldier, took a deep breath.

 

“You’re the Champion. You know what you did.”

 

Hawke nodded in understanding. “Ah. You’re from Kirkwall, judging by the accent.” She took a few steps towards the man. “So, tell me. Who did you lose in the rebellion I caused? Or did I personally kill your brother or something? Perhaps your smuggling business suffered because of me? Don’t tell me you turned to Qun, I’ve had enough religious zealots after me already. Please elaborate, there are so many things I’ve heard during the years, it’s really quite a bother to keep track of them all.”

 

“Just apologize, don’t get on her bad side”, Varric said behind her in a joking voice, clearly trying to defuse the situation. Neither Hawke nor the soldier turned to look at him, both failing to notice his shallow breathing or how his nervous eyes trailed her every moment.

 

Evelyn could have done something – no, should have done something. But just like everyone else in the tavern, she chose not to. She might have been the Inquisitor, the bloody Herald of Andraste, but Hawke was where it all started, the first Champion of Kirkwall, the almost-Inquisitor. No, Evelyn nor anyone else had any right to step in her way, and based on Hawke’s furious eyes – no courage either.

 

The soldier abruptly stood up, his companions whispering to him frantically and trying to get him down to no avail.

 

“My two sisters were Chantry sisters”, he started, starting straight at Hawke’s eyes without a flinch. “The same Chantry your apostate blew up. The same apostate you spread your legs for, for years, without doing shit. Whole Kirkwall knew about it, too, about the whore of Hightown. For all I know you were in his plan from the beginning.”

 

Hawke looked at him in exaggerated confusion, walking towards him in slow, confident steps. “Are you talking about the same apostate I stabbed in the back, before going to save all of Kirkwall – again? Another thing that’s proven to be hard the keep count of.”

 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” he yelled, making her giggle.

 

“Me? Shut up? You clearly don’t know me.”

 

He was a good head taller than her, muscular and fit, but Hawke was more experienced, agile, and oh, did she know how to play dirty. In just a few seconds a good kick to his knees, a bang when knees hit the floor and a head the wooden table, a crack and a shout when a finger was broken, and at last a swish of a knife when the cold steel unrevealed itself to be pressed against the man’s neck. The soldier’s hands were laid flat on the table, fingers for all but one scratching the surface. Hawke leaned against the man’s back looking nonchalantly relaxed, pinning him to the table.

 

“I’ve met so many people like you”, she smiled. “People who think they can harm me. Some try weapons, some try words, some try using my friends. Interestingly enough, they are all gone, while I’m still here.”

 

“What the – you bitch!” the soldier shrieked and tried to push himself back, only to meet Hawke’s lithe body and tip of the knife drawing blood against the pressure.

 

“Did you really think you could wound my fragile, feminine soul? You? As you said, it was common knowledge to whom my legs opened, and this might surprise you – even I knew it. _Surprise_! So no, you calling me a whore doesn’t work. Neither does calling me was a conspirator, since that lost its meaning around the thousandth time it was spat in my face.”

 

She looked briefly at Varric and was silent for a few seconds in thought. Then she sighed and turned back to the soldier. “What does make me mad is ruining the best night I’ve had in a _long_ time, thinking you can hurt me with a few pointless jabs. Did you really think me that weak?”

 

Hawke took a good look at the shaking man under her blade. “You’re a soldier. Right-handed, based on the calluses”, she said with no emotion in her voice, looking at the crying soldier under her grip.

                            

“Hawke –“ Varric started with a warning in his voice before she turned to look at him. She simply smiled at him, but for the first time it was a hollow smile, all of the earlier joy vanished. No more sound came from her best friend: his posture was hunched in defeat, eyes begging for something they all knew was not going to happen.

 

“Bah, don’t worry, I’m not here to kill anyone”, Hawke laughed an empty laugh. “I’m not completely without mercy.”

 

Varric let out a sigh of relief and shook his head, as if he’d seen this happen before and knew it was one her worse jokes. Hawke’s smile never died.

 

“But you know me”, she said. “Stabby-stabby.”

 

And so she thrusted a knife through the man’s forearm and didn’t even wince at the screams that followed.

 

She shook her head one more time disapprovingly to the man. Her hand was tinted red, which she then wiped on the man’s overcoat. She wiggled the knife still stuck in the man’s arm without blinking at the shouts of pain, but opted to leave it there before turning away. Hawke walked back to the front door, patting Varric on his shoulder.

 

“Thank you for the lovely evening”, she said and left without turning back.

 

Evelyn had never been in love, so she didn’t know what a broken heart felt like. One look at her dear Varric, and she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Guilty by Paloma Faith. I have zero imagination when it comes to titles, I found out. Also default Inquisitor and Hawke names, because never in my life have I had the patience to actually come up with custom names for my characters, a tradition I will proudly carry to this fic as well.
> 
> This is my very first published fanfic ever, so this is more than exciting (and scary!) for me. Moreover, English is not my native language, and while I'm normally confident enough with it, writing in a different language was quite difficult at times. Not just because of typos (I tried to find them, but I'm sure quite a few avoided me), but just using the language itself. My native language is the language I think in, the one that I compare all the other languages to, so there might be some things that make perfect sense to me as I understand them through my own language, but things that don't work that well in English. For example commas: English uses them waaaay less than I'm used to, and that's hard for me to remember. Stuff like that.
> 
> This first chapter is by far the longest, next ones are 98% written and they are nowhere this monstruous. Though what is a long chapter is quite subjective, I guess.
> 
> TL;DR - comments constructive criticism is more than welcome! I've pretty much written everything already, so no drastic remakes will probably be made, but I'd welcome them for future references. I'd also like to know if the roman numerals were clear enough, or would they be better indented, in bold, in italics, or fine as they are now? Such a silly little thing, but it still worries me! But don't try to crush my soul, that would also be cool! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! Ta-ta!


	2. Varric

**i.**

 

First there was Bianca.

 

She was _perfect,_ perfect for him like he was for her. Both surface dwarfs, both same age, both clever and indifferent. She was obviously the looks and the brains of the pair, when Varric just… was. And it was pure bliss, however short a time they had together. Just two fragmented years when they were young and naïve and foolish, the perfect star-crossed lovers, and a few fucks here and there for the next decade or so. Even when he quickly realized they wanted different things they loved each other, and that was what really mattered, he always told himself. Well, that’s what he thought at least. Only later it became clear that they were something completely different to her, something far less, but by then his life had completely changed.

 

Then there was Hawke, and it was as if Bianca and those two years never existed.

 

Hawke was anything Bianca was not. She was taller than Varric, though still on the short side for a human. She was not as pretty, not in any conventional way anyway, but to him she was the most stunning woman in whole of Thedas. It’s not like she was stupid, far from it, but only a few could even dream on matching Bianca’s wits in the first place. The thing was that Hawke simply didn’t care. If she didn’t know something, she asked (or bribed, or threatened, whatever) someone to tell her. She just wanted to make the ends meet, have a nice, easy life, but that didn’t turn out well in the end, as she soon found out.

 

She was witty, funny, pretty, a little bit broken, sweet to her friends and brutal to her enemies, and everything Varric had ever wanted.

 

**ii.**

 

The first time Varric’s heart broke was when he saw his mother’s drunken red eyes looking at him one last time, full of disappointment for herself and for her sons, before leaving them and never coming back. That night Bartrand stroked his head until little abandoned Varric fell asleep after hours of crying. Next morning Big Brother was gone, and a young unknown master had moved to their house, wearing his brother’s face, and he never again comforted Varric after nightmares or pat his head or sneaked him sweets from the market. Losing his father was horrible, being abandoned by their mother was crushing, but Bartrand left him truly alone for the first time in his life.

 

**iii.**

 

The second time was in the Hanged Man on a very pleasant evening, no different than a thousand evenings before. Merrill was unusually giggly and fell asleep on the table after three drinks much to their amusement, and Isabela stroked her back soothingly in a way that reminded Varric too much of his fool of a brother. Fenris snickered at Isabela’s supposedly (and most certainly not) true, racy tale about a man with a peg leg and a Silent Sister, and even Sebastian told a fond memory from his youth that made them all blush.

 

Then the door opened and the two of them entered, Anders’ hand on her hip and a blush on her cheeks, and Varric couldn’t do anything but look and smile politely and excuse himself early.

 

It was his own fault, of course it was. He had never done anything, just let himself be quietly infatuated and wishing it would pass someday. Even then everyone knew that the two of them were basically joined at the hip: where Hawke went, so did Varric, and no one dared to come between them. He was the person she came to when Sunshine was taken to the Circle and her mother had driven her out, when she turned up behind his door drunk as hell and more miserable than ever. When Varric put a bolt in his brother’s chest Hawke was there for him, listening and being unusually quiet for once, just like he needed it to be.

 

It was selfish and naïve of him, to think that nothing could ever come between Marian Hawke and Varric Tethras. It was his own fault, and there was nothing he could have said when kind, sweet Anders brushed stray hairs away from her smiling face, except to think how that could have been him.

 

**iv.**

 

The third time was when Hawke smiled at him sweetly as always, just a second before severing the drunken soldier’s hand like it was nothing, and Varric realized that the only person he cared more about than himself was a fucking mess.

 

He had realized that something was wrong before, from the very moment they met again after three years. Hawke had acted normal, but the things she said and the way she acted did not match the look on those dead blue eyes. Varric had been so _stupid_ , thinking it was just momentary, thinking that a few days with her favourite dwarf would make everything well again, when he finally would have the courage to do that.

 

He was wrong, and everybody knew it.

 

He saw how the others looked at him: he brought Hawke to Skyhold to mutilate a man, and now the crazy bitch worked for Inquisition and there was no way to get rid of her. Some of his friends were more sympathetic, but the rest of them – they knew. They had wanted the legendary champion to help save the world, and he had given them a violent lunatic.

 

Bitch. Psycho. Bastard. Whore.

 

That was not her to Varric. Whenever he imagined Marian Hawke, those words were never even close to his mind.

 

What he remembered were those blue eyes looking straight at him, dimples decorating the corners of her wide smile when she knew Varric had caught her cheating at cards once again, but neither ever said anything. Then Varric would make a gentle joke at her expense, she kicked him in the shin under the table, and that was it. Partners at crime, cheating people out of their money and clothes and fancy jewellery, just the two of them. That’s what he remembered, and no one was going to take it away from him.

 

**v.**

 

She avoided Varric’s eyes when they met again in the Western Approach, and _that_ was new. Marian Hawke was not one to be embarrassed nor ashamed of anything: not even once in all the years they had known each other he had seen that face. When Varric just took a step towards her, suddenly something phenomenally interesting happened near the ledge and that’s where she rushed to sit in silence. The Wardens were gone and Erimond had vanished, so there was really no reason why Hawke hadn’t just escaped to the desert instead of sitting alone nearby.

 

Just like she had no reason to stay, neither did them. Evelyn had already come up with a bunch of reasons why they weren’t on their way back home to Skyhold to prepare the troops, including investigating the ruins for the tenth time (“just in case”), gathering even more herbs (as if they hadn’t plucked out every deathroot on a ten mile radius) to observing the local wildlife (which they all knew was a horrible excuse, but she was the damn Inquisitor and so they’d have to stare at gurns for all eternity if she so pleased.)

 

She was stalling, quite obviously, and she didn’t even try to be subtle about her intentions. She pointedly looked between Varric and Hawke, once “accidentally” pushed him towards the ledge, and when he still didn’t go she finally shouted very loudly:

 

“Ooh, what is that? Is that a high dragon, there, behind the ledge! Varric, go investigate.”

 

He stared at the Herald blankly and didn’t move an inch. Evelyn smiled at him sweetly and hunched so their faces were just inches from each other, and whispered:

 

“That was an order, you bloody coward”, she said still smiling that stupid pretty smile of hers, anger hidden behind that facade. Then she sighed and the fury was gone from her voice. “Go, Varric. She needs you.”

 

He knew that. Of course he knew.

 

He walked slowly to her, scared shitless and giddy at the same time. Of course Varric wanted to have his best friend in the whole world back, but he was the one who left her in the first place, left her alone and lonely to ruin herself. Guilt was one of the feelings he had first met well into his adult life, and nearly all the times that feeling silently crept up to him concerned Hawke in one way or another.

 

Hawke glanced at him over her shoulder and waved a small hello. Varric sat next to her on the ledge, no longer hearing any voices from the camp.

 

“How’s the soldier?” Hawke asked quietly with a hint of red from uncharacteristic shame on her cheeks.

 

“The healers fixed him up right away: he’s fine. Happily swinging his sword in Skyhold for all I know.”

 

“Ah. Good.”

                                                                     

She was drawing on the sand with her forefinger an image that was almost certainly meant to be a dragon, but for some inexplicable reason resembled more of a goat with bat wings, bear claws, and a horsetail. Hawke was never the most artistically gifted person in their little group, Varric thought with a smile, but she did have a knack for obscene songs at least. Lady Amell nor their highborn neighbours were _not_ as happy of that particular talent as her daughter and her loveable gang of misfits had been.

 

“It still needs fire”, he pointed out. Hawke turned to look at him with a small smile.

 

“Nah, this is a friendly dragon. Only breathes stardust and shits rainbows.”

 

“Like the one in your Bone Pit?”

 

“Don’t insult Cupcake! She’s a gentle, misunderstood soul and my personal confidante.”

 

Now she looked just like before: grinning all the way to her eyes, the pitch in her voice up again like it always was when they were talking shit like this, and even her posture was relaxed and welcoming (though Hawke’s “welcoming” meant something along the lines “I won’t immediately stab you in the eye – for now”). They sat in a companionable silence for a while, both waiting the other person to say something.

 

“Hawke”, Varric started carefully.

 

“I know”, she cut him off. “I know.”

 

She was kneeling with her head against her hands so Varric couldn’t read her expression, but he didn’t need to: a decade of being best friends did do that.

 

"We never talk, do we?” he asked with an uncertain chuckle. “It’s just jokes and banter.”

 

“No. We don’t”, Hawke answered. “But I like it. What we normally do. It’s nice.”

 

Again silence surrounded them, but this time it was just Varric waiting for Hawke to say something, _anything_.

 

He could hear her heavy breathing before she turned, looking over her shoulder with hurt in her eyes. This was the first time Varric had ever seen that look on his best friend’s face, and it killed him. When Leandra died, Hawke was crushed; when Anders died, she got lost. But this? The look of utter defeat, of guilt and self-blame and emptiness, the look that Varric had forced to be shown.

 

“What do you want me to say, Varric?” she snapped. “That I fucking hate being the Champion? That this is not the life I want?”

 

“Hawke –“

 

“You don’t get it”, she said and faced him completely, staring straight at him looking more wounded than ever. “I never wanted any of this. I can’t even take a damn piss in peace, without someone either telling about my great deeds or how I fucked up everything. I never wanted to be a Champion, and then I became one and I was a fucking disgrace at it and now there’s nothing for me. No friends, no family, no purpose – _nothing_ , Varric.”

 

He knew that: of course he did. No one knew Hawke better than Varric and no one knew him better than her. That’s just the way things had been ever since he shot that bolt and met the shabby Fereldan refugee in the streets of Hightown. He knew, and he still did nothing to help her, because Varric Tethras was a bloody coward when he was actually needed.

 

Then Hawke asked him the question he had been waiting for four long years.

 

“Do you think I did the right thing? Maybe…. maybe they could’ve been separated, and he would’ve come back. Just him.”

 

_Back to her_ , the words hanged silently in the air.

 

Varric sighed and shook his head. His hand wrapped around her tight fist, thumb gently streaking the skin. “You did the right thing. He… Anders was gone, Hawke. Maybe had been gone for a while. You know it too.”

 

“Yes, but maybe –“ she pleaded with wild, desperate eyes.

 

“Listen, Marian”, he said a bit firmer than necessary. “Even if that would’ve been possible, you know it wasn’t what Anders would have wanted. He was a good man: his whole life was about healing and helping people, not… that. If somehow we got rid of Justice, what do you think would’ve happened? When he found out that hundreds of people were dead because him, that a war broke out after Kirkwall?”

 

Hawke’s tight fist slowly relaxed, but she still didn’t pull her hand away. She looked down at her sand dragon and chuckled, and it was one of the most devastating sounds Varric had ever heard. “Yeah. Mercy for Anders.”

 

Varric took a step closer and gently touched her wrist. “You still have me, Waffles. You always will.”

 

Hawke didn’t flinch at all, despite normally avoiding any kind of physical touch besides strangling her enemies. Her blue eyes were looking over his shoulder at something that wasn’t there, and finally a sad, empty smile appeared on her scarred face.

 

“I’m not yours to fix, Varric”, she whispered still without looking at him.

 

“I know”, he answered. “But you’re still not getting rid of me that easy. You’ve had a few bad years, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.” He was looking for the next thing to say for a moment before trying to voice the things he had wanted to say for a long time. “We never should have left you. _I_ shouldn’t have. You’re my best friend, and I just…”

 

She finally looked at him and pulled her hand away from him, shaking her head. “I’m not the Hawke you want, Varric. Not anymore”, she said bitterly.

 

“You’ll always be the Hawke I want.”

 

For a while everything stopped.

 

She was staring at him eyes big and mouth agape like she had never done before. If she’d been any other woman Varric would’ve sworn that a hint of red had crept to her cheeks, but she was Hawke, and that sort of thing just wasn’t physically possible for her.

 

_Ah. She didn’t know_ , he realized.  Since Evelyn and seemingly half of Skyhold knew already, Varric had foolishly assumed that Hawke knew too, but then again, she always did say that Bethany was the smart one.

 

“Yeah?” she asked.

 

_Crap_. This was not what he wanted. He just wanted them to go back to normal, just like before. In his dreams Hawke was again the same loud, tactless, brilliant hero of the day, and he would be her snarky sidekick and gambling partner. Now she knew, and Maker knows neither of them really cared for these silly things other people called “feelings”, and things were going to be awkward and they would never partner up to cheat at cards again.

 

So, worst case scenario: they would never be the same again.

 

Also, best case scenario: they would never be the same again.

 

Varric had never been a particularly brave man, not when it really mattered anyway. He was a coward back in Kirkwall and he was a coward in the battlements when they finally met again. Just this once, just once in his life, he would try not be the funny dwarf: just him.

                                                                                            

What the hell. “Yeah.”

 

He saw something he hadn’t seen in years. There was no more grief, no more regret, just his Hawke and her big blue eyes looking straight at him and a genuine smile on her lips.

 

“Marian”, he coughed and raised his voice, wanting desperately to move on. That startled her: he had called her by her first name only a handful of times in over the decade they had known each other.  “I shouldn’t have left, no matter what you say. And I’m not leaving this time.”

 

“You went to do something bigger than starting bar fights and being a sad drunk”, she scoffed, but not as gloomily as before. “I’m glad you left, to be honest. Really. I would’ve left me as well”, she continued and raised her head to look at her ugly dragon again. “I wanted to leave myself too.”

 

“You’re not the only one who gets to act bullheaded: it’s my turn. I’m staying. Period.”

 

She sighed and shook her head in disbelief, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak.

 

“I know you feel like shit, Waffles, I do. And I never did anything about it, because I just felt so damn guilty about leaving you in the first place, even when it was clear you needed me – well, us. But no matter what you have convinced yourself you did _not_ ruin everything. There was nothing you could’ve done otherwise. Even if Anders wouldn’t have done the thing he did, someone else was going to do it. Gallows was a hell, and it was a fucking miracle that it stayed peaceful as long as it did in the first place. Hell, you came to the Inquisition’s rescue the minute you got my letter, right? Here you are, making the world better one stab at a time.”

 

“I didn’t come for the Inquisition’s rescue”, she muttered. “Don’t give damn about them. Too posh and snooty.”

 

Varric furrowed his brows. “Then why –“

 

“You wrote me”, she looked at him as if he was dumb as an Orzammar rock. “Needed my help. Of course I came.”

 

If he had been a younger dwarf he might have furiously blushed, but he was not. Instead of hiding red cheeks embarrassed he just felt calmness and anticipation, and it was not a bad feeling, not at all. Calm that she would be fine someday: maybe not yet, but she would be. And he would be there for her this time.

 

“Good talk”, she said after clearing her throat and jumped back to her feet fidgety. Yep, she really was not used to being embarrassed, Varric thought to himself again with a smile. “I guess I should um, you know, scout ahead. For Airmold.”

 

“Erimond.”

 

“Yeah, that one, like I said. Fishy guy, really not a fan, quite rude making blood sacrifices in the middle of a day in esteemed company. Soooo…”

 

“So?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow, not able to hide his amusement. Hawke kicked some sand his way in retaliation to his reaction, but even she smiled.

 

“ _So_. I’ll just go do my thing, find out where he went, save the day and all that, just a day in life of a certain Waffles Hawke.”

 

“Glad to have you back”, Varric smiled and stood up. Hawke glanced towards the camp where the rest of the team were waiting, but she didn’t take a step that way. She looked back at him and bit her lip nervously, and Varric understood. When they’d leave the ledge, the spell was broken: no more hearty confessions, insecure looks and no more of the companionable atmosphere only two best friends of over a decade could have. In the camp they would just be members of a team, just Hawke and Varric, who would have to depart again after merely having reconnected.

 

“Thanks. For this and everything. Really. Next time we’ll talk”, she said. “ _Talk_ talk. Or at least I’ll try. But not yet.”

 

“Not yet”, he agreed and relief washed over her face. Then he smiled his widest grin. “Ready to save the world, Waffles?”

 

“Always”, she laughed, and that sound was something he remembered fondly for a long, long time.

 

**vi.**

 

Of course he wasn’t blind, but at the very least he could stubbornly pretend not to see Evelyn’s glances and warm smiles that he felt at his back. She was going through the latest messages from Skyhold in the candlelight and raised her eyes to him too often for his comfort, and it was coming increasingly clear that a heartfelt and sweet talk from their dear Inquisitor was unavoidable.

 

Varric sighed as loud as he could so that every single soul in the whole damn desert would hear how frustratingly annoying and nice she could be. For hours he had made sure that she would see nothing but his back, but now he finally turned to properly look her in the eyes.

 

“Come on then, spit it out”, he grunted.

 

“I’m glad you finally talked”, Evelyn answered with her oh-so-famous nice and soothing Inquisitor voice that could calm down whole armies if she so wished.

 

“It’s not like you gave me much choice”, he said, just as glad about the said talk at the ledge as she was. 

 

She looked at him in silence for a while, no doubt remembering what had happened before dusk with too much sentimentality and sweetness as she usually did. After all the silent thoughts she finally landed on the next nine words to convey her feelings: “I wish you to be happy. Both of you.”

 

It wouldn’t have been that bad if he didn’t know her well enough; nine quite general words in quite a general context, what’s the fuss? However, Varric knew her, knew how much she cared and how much she had meant every single one of those boring, wonderful words.

 

He awkwardly shifted his weight and gave her a blaming look, not able to answer her like a normal person and a friend from all his touched and confused emotions he was in no way used to. “Why do you have to be so damn nice?”

 

“It’s a curse”, she smiled, pretending not to see his awkwardness and happiness, and he absolutely loved her for that.

 

**vii.**

 

Adamant. Great. Of course after fighting the bad guys on small groups on deserts and forests the next step would be an ancient, giant fucking fortress. Just bloody _magnificent_.

 

It had taken weeks to get back to Skyhold, weeks to prepare the troops, and again – weeks to go to Adamant, and Varric had hated every minute of it. He was famously a city dwarf: before meeting Hawke his most nature-y experience had been a vase of flowers he kept in his room, and that had been perfectly fine with him. Then a certain refugee appeared, and all of a sudden his life was filled with hunting blood mages in the Wounded Coast and collecting herbs in the Sundermount, but did destiny think that was enough? Of course not! Enter deserts, glaciers and jungles, and there was nothing he could do about it except complain loud enough that the whole of Orlais would know that Varric Tethras was a very respectable city dwarf and not some bloody adventurer, thank you very much.

 

The only thing that kept him from stubbornly sitting on a nice piece of rock and staying there while Evelyn was off saving the world was seeing Hawke again, but no one else needed to know that. Quite coincidentally he also cut off his complaining to half and was always in the front of the troops with the Inquisitor and her advisors keeping the quick pace, a fact that Evelyn just loved to point out loudly and repeatedly, and for some inexplicable reason he didn’t even mind.

 

The main camp was a like tiny city, its streets narrow and dirty between all the tents. Some tents were nothing more than a canvas held up by sticks, others elaborate and grand. Most of the Inner Circle slept very comfortably in the latter category, so that was not were Varric headed. No: if he wanted to find Hawke, he would go straight to the farthest point of the camp from the Inquisitor, or alternatively, follow the Chargers’ racket.

 

Hawke was slouching on a rock, one hand holding a dirty bottle of something vile, the other absentmindedly drawing patterns on the rock’s sandy surface. On the other side of the fire Skinner was telling about her plans for “stupid shemlens” tomorrow with a wicked grin much to the other Chargers’ horror, but Hawke had the same fascinated expression she always had when gore was involved. Bull noticed him approaching and bellowed his name.

 

“Varric! I almost thought you drowned in all this fucking sand, you’re late!”

 

“I wasn’t aware that we even had an appointment”, he answered and caught Hawke’s eyes. She no longer was sitting in a hunch: instead her back was straight as an arrow, but it wasn’t from vigilance, Varric noted – it was excitement. Her smile was not one of those knowing and amused smirks reserved for most of the people, perfected for over thirty years for maximum annoyance and an air of confidence. No: this one was a true Marian Hawke smile, reserved for only her closest friends and family. It was a sight he had seen far too few times in the decade they had known each other, but one that he could remember even after forgetting his own name.

 

Hawke stopped drawing the picture and instead patted the rock next to her, and naturally he practically ran to her. None of the Chargers seemed to notice, all deep in concentration trying to persuade Skinner give up her diabolical plan, but Bull did nod to him once with a warm smile.

 

She dangled the brown bottle in front of him grinning amusedly. Based on her challenging expression he knew that whatever was in there was going to be basically rat poison, but he had never said no to Hawke and he certainly was going to start now.

 

Varric regretted his decision after the very first sip, wanting to cough and spit out the liquid just like when he was a mere child after breaking to his brother’s liquor cabinet. Hawke saw his struggling, smiling at him wickedly while leaning to her crossed knees.

 

“What kind of a self-respecting merchant even sells this stuff? This is the single worst thing I’ve ever had in my life”, he admitted in defeat and passed the bottle back.

 

“I know, right?” she answered and threw the bottle over her shoulder to the desert. “You did try very valiantly though, so don’t feel embarrassed.”

 

“Me? When have I ever.”

 

“Remember that one time when we found some Rivaini whiskey and you decided to become a pirate? And then you –“

 

“Fine, _once_. Just one certain morning and certain revelations about the night before have made me feel embarrassed. You happy?”

 

“A bit better”, she answered with a wicked grin. “You _did_ look very handsome with that hat and sword.”

 

“I aim to please”, he said with an elaborate bow and a wink.

 

“As do I”, the Inquisitor said as she approached the fire with a bottle of something much better than Hawke’s rat poison in both hands. She sat next to their shared stone on the sand only to find that their Champion’s reflexes were still very much present, and the bottle quickly found itself in Hawke’s embrace.

  
“Hey!” Evelyn cried with an exaggerated look of hurt on her face. Hawke shook her free hand dismissively.

 

“I’m older and wiser than you, and believe me when I say that alcohol is bad for you. I’m just a responsible adult, frankly speaking you should thank me”, she smirked and gently patted the bottle in her lap. Evelyn scoff soon changed into a mischievous smile when the alcohol was snatched by Varric after Hawke’s monologue.

 

Hawke stared at the dwarf looking utterly baffled. “Wait, what? Varric! I stole that fair and square”, she hissed and reached for the bottle that a very smug-looking Varric held far away from her.

 

“I’m older than wiser than you”, he said and winked at giggling Evelyn. Hawke groaned and gave up, not completely able to hide her laughter behind an overdramatically disapproving glance.

 

After a few gulps under Hawke’s stern scrutiny he finally passed the bottle back to the original thief. She drank from the bottle’s mouth way too quickly than a wine with such a fancy etiquette reserved and let out a satisfied sigh. She looked at Evelyn with a smile that was even borderline polite instead of her usual hostile smirk; yep, the wine had to be exquisite to make that happen.

 

“Thanks for the wine, Trevelyan. I humbly take back all the times when I said I hated you and/or threatened to kill you.”

 

“Classic Hawke”, Varric chuckled.

 

“You still hate me”, Evelyn smiled amusedly.

 

“Oh, that’s for certain”, Hawke said, nodding furiously.

 

“And you will never stop threatening me, either.”

 

“Seems a tad unlikely.”

 

“Well, then. Apology accepted”, Evelyn smiled and took the offered bottle and the last remaining drops back to herself.

 

“You know, Hawke, the smart move might be not to threaten every single person you meet”, Varric suggested as an obvious joke, knowing fully well that the unapologetically murderous part of her is a big part of Hawke’s nature and charm, and may he say, a reason why he loved her so.

 

“Well, Bethany was always the smart one”, Hawke stated as a fact and nodded with an affectionate smile on her face.

 

“I thought she was the pretty one?” Evelyn asked.

 

“Well, she’s also that, obviously”, Hawke scoffed at the inquisitor’s clearly idiotic question.

 

“And the nice one”, Varric helped.

 

“And the patient one”, Hawke nodded in agreement.

 

“And the brave one.”

 

“And the honest one.”

 

“And the mature one.”

 

“Bethany might be the best person alive, ever”, Hawke said and furrowed her brows in concentration before nodding again. “Nope, she most definitely is. My bad.”

 

Varric saw Evelyn’s sorrowful smile, knowing well that she never had what Hawke and Bethany had. That was one thing he and their Inquisitor shared: a shitty, distant family. She was the youngest of many children, when even one was too much for a mother sold too young to be the other half of a miserable marriage, and all they had to show of their family were tense yearly visits and one-sided favours.

 

“I like what you have”, she admitted out loud. “How you put your family before anything. Sounds nice.”

 

“Well, obviously the most important person in my life is me”, Hawke said seriously with a smile in her eyes. “It is an unfair comparison to start with, I admit; very few people are as dashing, hilarious and – what’s the word again? Oh yes, perfect – as me.”

 

“Humble as always”, Varric said with smiling eyes.

 

“Another one of my many virtues, as you well know”, Hawke made a little bow. “The second place is held by Bethany – pure nepotism, I assure you. Besides, I really don’t want to make someone who can throw fireballs at my hair pissed.”

 

She smiled in silence for a while before taking a deep breath.

 

“The competition for the third place was tough, but eventually I settled into a certain famous Kirkwallian author.”

 

“Hawke –“ Varric started, giving a stern look at grinning Evelyn who was certainly going to mock him later for his flustering. There was no use in teasing him about it later; he would just blame it on the wine, even when the real reason was quite clear to him as well. However, for now Evelyn chose to simply follow the scene that wasn’t meant for her quietly, and for that Varric felt lucky to have her as his friend.

 

“Oh, no no no!” Hawke laughed and shook her head. “Not you, obviously. I was referring to my very bestest friend, the author of the acclaimed masterpiece, ‘ _Hard in Hightown 3: The Re-Punchening’_ , Worthy.”

 

“You - are an ass.”

 

“You know you love it.”

 

They both grinned like idiots.

 

“I should go to sleep, big day tomorrow”, Evelyn abruptly stood up and winked at Varric. “Enjoy the rest of the evening”, she continued and turned back towards her own tent.

 

“Good night”, Hawke answered, and Evelyn just had to turn back to make sure that the Champion had actually been polite with her without a mischievous grin on her scarred face. Hawke smiled back at her, her legs crossed and with relaxed posture, looking straight at Evelyn with sincere eyes.

 

For a while Evelyn just looked back at her confused, before smiling as well. “Good night”, she answered fondly, and left.

 

**viii.**

 

The camp was finally quieted down, after hours of nervous excitement about tomorrow. Even the Chargers had gone to sleep after Varric and Hawke had graciously lead the drunken mercenaries back to their tents, either gently pointing them to the right direction or practically rolling their passed out bodies away. Only the two of them were still looking at the embers of dying fire, neither as drunk as everyone expected them to be. Well, them and Skinner, who had passed out first hours ago and had ever since occasionally muttered something nefarious about shemlens. Varric was getting quite nervous that Hawke had met her idol and life mentor in the elf, but as long as Hawke was happy, he was too.

 

Shit, he _was_ getting old and sappy.

 

Well, probably there were worse sins in the world than feeling joy for once, he thought with a chuckle. Hawke turned to look at him curiously.  

 

“I wonder what my second favourite dwarf is giggling about”, she asked.

 

“Hawke said sarcastically”, Varric said with a mischievous smirk. She burst out laughing, and even Skinner twitched in her sleep from the sudden loud shriek.

 

Hawke rested her head against his, so close that their thighs touched and he could feel the tremors of her laughter everywhere in his body.

  
“I missed that.”

 

He couldn’t help but grin. “Oh? I remember you hating it quite vehemently.”

 

“Well, they don’t necessarily have to be mutually exclusive feelings.”

 

“Hawke said to her favourite dwarf.”

 

“I hate you so much.”

 

“Sure you do.”

 

Varric felt thin, scarred fingers slowly interlacing with his, fingertips gently smoothing over the calloused skin, and it was way better than anything he had ever written in any of his trashy romances. He felt Hawke’s breath slowing down, relaxing, and a he was glad that no one was around to see the smile way too sappy for someone his age on his face.

 

“I want to go home. After all this”, she almost whispered.

 

“Yeah. Me too. We’ll get there, Waffles.”

 

He could almost see it, the two of them setting their eyes on Kirkwall and its grey stone, how she would drag the both of them immediately to see Sunshine after many years apart, and it would be _great_. He pushed the other thoughts away as well as he could: how she would beat herself to the ground when seeing the Chantry and drink herself to oblivion, or when she stepped into the empty estate which used to be so colourful, alive, a home to her and her family that never got there.

 

“Any plans?” he asked, trying to think of nicer thoughts. Her fingers stopped their slow, gentle movements instantly, but they still stayed where they belonged.

 

“Not really”, she gulped. “I was thinking that… I know that you have ideas for Kirkwall, with the Merchant’s Guild and the seneschal and all that. I could have your back.”

 

“Champion turned bodyguard? You could run for viscount, if you wanted.”

 

She laughed. “I think my last go at a high position should stay my last. And no, before you start your speech how it wasn’t my fault”, she poked at his side with her elbow, because that was exactly what he was going to do, “it wasn’t what I wanted. I liked being a lowly mercenary and running around with all of you. That’s what I want. To take care of people I care about, have their backs, kill a few bad guys at the side.”

 

“Well, we can’t completely keep you from murdering people, can we?”

 

“That would be just plain stupid. I’m _excellent_ at sticking the pointy end into people.”

 

“That you are, Waffles. That you are.”

 

She wasn’t wrong, about his plans. To her Kirkwall was a city where her sister was taken away, where his mother was killed, where she killed her lover. It wasn’t exactly home to her: just a city where she stayed a bit longer than other places. No, it wasn’t the place that was home to her: home was where her family was.

 

But it was a home to him. Even with all the bad memories, it was where he belonged, where he met Hawke. He wasn’t going to abandon it after all he and the city had been through, and just the thought of her being there with him almost made him forget that he was a middle-aged dwarf and not some teenager making puppy eyes at a girl way out of his league.

 

“Bethany is doing good things with the Circle, and Aveline’s guard is keeping the city safer than ever, so things are already better than they were. But I do have plans, big ones that will surely make some people want to put me six feet under. So… yeah. I wouldn’t mind someone having my back”, he admitted.

 

“And we could get everyone back together! Just like old times, at least for one night.”

 

“I have heard some very intriguing rumours about a certain admiral with a ridiculous that I need to confirm, for research purposes of course. _Someone_ needs to write all this shit down.”

 

“A new tale for the band of misfits”, she said fondly. “Adventures, drinks, and Wicked Grace.”

 

“I like the sound of that”, Varric answered smiling. “Adventures, drinks, and Wicked Grace.”

 

And finally, he felt truly happy.


	3. Hawke

_Bloomingtime, 9:37_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Is everything good at the Gallows? Or at least better? Don’t worry, I’ve already thought out eight escape plans for you and several dozen ways to get rid of the new Knight Commander if he doesn’t make things right. I know they read these letters, so I’d just like to note that these plans do include conveniently blocked doors, angry mabaris with pointy teeth, and a very bitter kitchen maid with a history of poisons, so please make sure I have no need for these truly nefarious ideas. I’m really in need of some vacation, and mass murder really doesn’t go well with my plans. Just thought to mention this, but I’m sure reforms are already taking place, right?

 

We have finally arrived, might stay here for a while. Everyone’s tired, but Isabela’s keeping the mood up the best she can, and boy, does she have endless stashes of whiskey! I just hope you are better than us, or at least less smelly. Kirkwall might be a shithole, but I certainly took the years of bath houses for granted, that much the great outdoors have taught me. I’d say this is the worst, but… it really isn’t. I know. Fenris killed a bear yesterday by himself, and I’ve probably never seen him so smug. He even smiled, can you believe that?

 

So no, nothing has happened after our stylish exit from the Gallows. Life as a fugitive is a lot less exciting than I thought; I’m kinda disappointed, to be honest. Say hi to Aveline for me. I’m happy that you have someone there to watch your back, especially with those new Templars. No offense, whoever is reading this very private letter to my sister.

 

I miss you. ~~I’m sorry.~~

 

Your loving, infamous sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Kingsway, 9:37_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

I’m glad things are going well over there. I’d also like note that I’ve decided to abandon a few of my most vile and gory plans for the evil Templars, but a few are still under consideration.

 

A few days ago we met slavers who had decided to “help” some refugees. So many of these helpers nowadays, but at least there’s something meaningful for us to do. You know that I’m no saint, better than anyone, but even I have a heart. I hate this war. This is lunacy. Outside cities everyone is a target. Mages for being mages, Templars for being Templars, the rest of them for being neither. Just talking to a mage or a Templar and you’re as good as dead.

 

Fenris left yesterday, after we got rid of the slavers. Said he could help the slaves, knowing what they are going through, and he couldn’t do that while we were just hiding and killing the occasional bad guys. He’s right, of course, but I just can’t leave yet. I hope you understand.

 

Hope to see you soon.

 

Your loving, fugitive sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Firstfall, 9:37_

 

Bethany,

 

Happy to hear that Templars aren’t allowed to read your letters anymore. Less happy to hear the “don’t ‘dear’ me”, part. You are my family, and I love you, and I miss you so much. Please don’t be mad.

 

You must know that I never wanted this war. I make my living from fighting, sure, but so did you for a while, so don’t patronize me. I fight because I’m good at it and because I love it, but why the hell does that mean I enjoy this fucking slaughter? These people have done nothing, they just exist, and now they are massacred. I hope you didn’t’ mean what you said. I just want things to go back to normal, if that ever even existed. Gallows was shit, but this is pure insanity. I loved Anders, I still do, but I never wanted this. Neither did he. Justice might have, but not Anders. You never knew him like I did anyway, so just stop this bullshit.

 

Sorry about the language.

 

I’ll write more next time. I don’t feel too good.

 

I still miss you.

 

Love,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Guardian, 9:38_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

You never answered, so the letter probably never arrived. Don’t worry, I’ll fucking flay him the next time I see the messenger.

 

I hope you’re still not mad. I’m happy that the last letter never found you, I wasn’t exactly at my best when writing it. Just wanted you to know that I hate this war just as much as you, and that this is never what I wanted. I love – loved – Anders so much, but I’d never agree to what he did, or what Justice made him do.

 

I never asked, but I wanted to know what happened to him. Did you give him a proper funeral? I need to know. Please.

 

Merrill is returning to Kirkwall soon, she’s just preparing for the journey. We heard about the alienage. I hope that Aveline soon gets things under control, but she’s just one woman. Could you go and see if Merrill’s house is still there, and if not, make sure she has somewhere to go when she arrives? She’d never ask for help herself, but she’s our friend who never deserved any of this.

 

We might not return as soon as I thought. Things here are bad, and there’s much to do. Plus I hear my bounty was raised again, so there’s that too. I’m sorry.

 

Your loving sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Cloudreach, 9:38_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Please answer me. I’m so sorry for everything, but I need to talk to you. Please. We’re family.

 

Thanks for taking care of Merrill.

 

Your loving, idiotic sister,

Marian.

 

* * *

 

 

_Solace, 9:38_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Isabela and Varric left. She’s who knows where, hopefully making a fortune. I hope you’re still friends with Varric, even after he left with me, but he came back to Kirkwall and he wants to help. Please don’t be too hard on him.

 

I know things didn’t go well with us. With you and me, and with us on the run. I never told you about the things before, didn’t want to worry you. I wasn’t myself for a while. Merrill was scared of me, you know? And she’s a blood mage! So… things were not good. She still stayed. I hope things are well with her now. She hasn’t written be either, but Varric said in his one letter that her house looks nice again. He has written me once, he hasn’t been gone that long, but it was nice to have at least one friend left. I haven’t heard from Fenris even once, but I guess none of us have. By now Isabela’s probably back terrorizing the seas already, so she doesn’t have that much time to write either.

 

It’s strange being alone for the first time… in my life, I guess. I always had you and Carver. I miss him so much, even if he was a jerk and disliked me and he was grumpy all the time. Sure, he was a jerk because I was an absolute monster to him, but that’s what siblings are supposed to be, I guess - hope. He would’ve made a great Champion, he wouldn’t have run away. It’s been eight years, and I still remember the whole thing better than actual yesterday. I miss mum too. She never forgave me, not really.

 

You’re my only family, Bethany. Please write back. I need to know you’re alright.

 

Your loving sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

_Haring, 9:38_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

I don’t think you read these anymore. But I don’t really have anyone else to write.

 

Things are not getting better. There are still so many refugees, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m the fucking Champion of Kirkwall, hiding in some fucking bush from the fucking world.

 

I met a few Wardens. Their leader, Alistair, was the one we met during the Qunari uprising. There was also this dwarf, Sigrun, originally from the Legion of the Dead. I’ve never met one before, and she really wasn’t what I expected. Anyway, she knew Anders. We sat for a few drinks, and she told me about him, and I felt like he died a second time.

 

She never met our Anders, and her Anders was a totally different person. She joked about how vain he was, with nice clothes and a gold earring and how he was so handsome. I always knew that Anders must have been a looker when he was young, or could have been at least, but it was all hidden behind the shabbiness and I never really thought about it. I just thought that’s what he had always looked like. Sigrun’s Anders was a bit selfish and greedy and full of life, and mine was… not. He was kind and compassionate and sweet, but always a bit sad under it all. I did see it, and I thought I could make it better. We all know how that turned out.

 

Sigrun tried to recruit me, but I just couldn’t do it. It might have been a new start, to actually do something about my life, and I couldn’t do it. I never was a coward when it came to battles, you know that, but I just can’t. I might die at the joining, and I would never see you again, or Varric or Aveline or anyone else either. I want to come back home, when the time’s right, so please wait for me.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

_Drakonis, 9:39_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

I never told you about Anders’ potion. It was supposed to help him get rid of Justice, and I was so, so happy that I helped him. Then he blew up the chantry.

 

I’m sorry.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Bloomingtide, 9:39_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

I just keep going on about him. It’s difficult. Every day I think what I could have done something differently. If I wouldn’t have stabbed him I’d have someone to talk to, at least. But I had to do it. He wasn’t Anders anymore, and my Anders wouldn’t have wanted to live like that. I had to do it, and it broke me for a long time. I was so sad and angry about everything, I still am, and I hate this.

 

I don’t even really recognize myself anymore. The Marian in the Tale of the Champion is not me, and I’m not her. I hope to get better, and I think I will. Slowly, but I will.

 

I still miss him, but he’s gone. It’s getting easier, but just very, very slowly.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Harvestmere, 9:39_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Varric wrote me. Congratulations on your promotion. You deserve it.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Cloudreach, 9:40_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

It’s strange how people still look out for the Champion of Kirkwall, even after everything that has happened and three years on the run. I love how Varric conveniently left out the fact that we were really just mercenaries wanting for money, but who just found a bit bigger fish than they bargained for.

 

I regret what happened in Kirkwall, all those years. I’d never have left Ferelden if I knew what would have happened. We had good times too, and I was happy there. But being the Champion? It’s hell. It’s not what I wanted. I wanted to get some money and a decent life, and now I’m a mysterious, vanished figure head of a mage rebellion, even when I was one of the reasons this whole fucking genocide happened? No. It should be someone better. Like I said, Carver would’ve made a good Champion.

 

You must know that I’m writing these mostly for myself now. I don’t expect you even to open these, to be honest. But it’s nice to at least think I have someone to write to. I still haven’t heard from anyone, other than Varric’s two letters. All of us were together in Kirkwall for years, and still, somehow, I don’t have any family or friends left. And it’s my fault.

                                                                                                                             

It hurts knowing the truth.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Kingsway, 9:40_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Did you get my gift?

 

I went back to Lothering. It’s still empty. Our house was still there, and so was dad’s grave. It’s been 13 years, can you believe that? I wish Carver could have been buried next to him, that’s what he deserved and what mum deserved as well. I hate that they aren’t all together like they should be.

 

Lothering’s a lot smaller than I remembered. It used to the whole world to me, but it turns out to be just a small village. Funny how memory works.

 

I don’t really remember what dad looked like. I haven’t even thought about him for years, to be honest. Same with Carver and mum. I miss them, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember them like they were and how it felt like when they were gone. I’m not sure if this means I’m getting better or worse. It feels better, at least.

 

I wrote to Aveline as well. There’s something wrong with the Grey Wardens, and nobody knows what it is. They are all dying, or at least they think they are, and it’s not good. She’s going to take you and her family away from the Marches. Please go away with her. I beg you.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Guardian, 9:41_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Aveline wrote me that you’re safe. Don’t do anything stupid, and stay safe. I’m not going to lose you too.

 

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Cloudreach, 9:41_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but it’s Corypheus. He’s the one behind this all, and I let him free. I thought not saving Anders was my biggest failure but seems like I was wrong – I also apparently destroyed the world! Tadah! Hurray Champion of Kirkwall!

 

Varric wrote me, asked me to help the Inquisition. It’s a strange feeling, finding out in one letter that you almost destroyed the world but you can also help fix it. Everything feels better, in some way, even when the world is ending. I finally have a goal and a purpose, and it feels like I can finally move on, in a way. I don’t even think about Anders anymore, not like I used to, before this little …mishap. Now it’s more about how I loved being in love, you know? I miss that feeling. And him, but not like I used to, not the same way. There are other things I miss more.

 

There are so many things I’m looking forward to, like returning to Kirkwall and to you, and not just about how I royally screwed up. It’s a great feeling, really. I shouldn’t be excited, but I am. It’s been four years, and finally I can do what the damn Champion is supposed to do. I’ll go help them, and we’ll stop this. Or actually, they’ll stop this and I just run along and collect all the credit, as usual.

 

Your loving, sentimental sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Justinian, 9:41_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

I’m still not fine. I didn’t really realize it before I got to Skyhold. The Templars and the mages are working together, and it’s… great. It really is.

 

I haven’t been around people in a long time, not really. I was never a… people-person, as you now. Too inpatient and frankly, too blood-thirsty to be liked. But I think I’ve made some sort of record here. I can’t help it, and I’m not sure I want to. My last group of friends didn’t really end well, and even when it’s all on me, it’s difficult to forget. Any one of these people might die tomorrow and they are ready for it, even me. It’s not a good place to make friends. I actually made a senior Templar cry yesterday, and it wasn’t even on purpose! I mostly stay on my own. It’s what I’m good at, anyway.

 

Varric is avoiding me. I feel like he’s disappointed in what I’ve become, and again – can’t blame him. I did kind of stab a drunk soldier because he annoyed me, so no wonder if I’m not exactly the belle of the ball here. It still hurts. I missed him so much, he was the only one who ever wrote to me. I want us to be like before, but I’m not sure I can be that person anymore. I want to be, I do, but it’s hard.

 

I hope you’re well. I miss you.

 

Your loving, stabby sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_Solace, 9:41_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

Currently I’m on a super-secret mission to save the world, though here “super-secret” means “bored to death” and “neck-deep in sand.” It’s a blast, really.

 

I think Varric and I are friends again? Kind of, at least. We talked, and the drunk soldier is fine too, and he apologized for leaving me when I was having my low point a few years ago. Obviously I thought it was the right thing to do then (and I still think that they were all right to leave), but it does feel good to have someone. I have been alone for too long, and I wasn’t exactly the most stable person even before all this. This will be good for me, I think.

 

I’ve been thinking of returning to Kirkwall after all this is finished. Surely after four years they have forgotten all about me, right? Their first and only Champion, saviour (and subsequent destroyer) of their city, protagonist of the best-selling book three years in a row, and all that. I heard our house is gone – thank the Maker! I hated the house. Too big and drafty, to be honest. Maybe I could also move to a shitty tavern? I really REALLY want to meet baby Hendyr and see your new fancy office and whatever nonsensible interior decoration style Merrill has decided to pursue.

 

I really want to fix things between us. You’re my sister and I love you so much, and I know I messed up and left you alone in the Gallows while I was just getting drunk and fighting bad guys when you needed me. I know nothing can make all that away, I promise I’ll be there for you now, if you’ll have me. 

 

Your loving sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_August, 9:41_

 

Dear Bethany,

 

We are finally going to attack, tomorrow. It’s no secret anymore, the Wardens know we're here, so there’s no harm in writing you about it. I’m excited, I really am! Happy, even. You know me, nothing makes me happier than stabbing bad guy to their kidneys.

 

You know how I loved being a mercenary – hell, it’s what I was born to do. And know I get to do it for something bigger than myself, just for once. I have a chance of making things right (or better, at least). To redeem myself, and right now I don’t give a shit about how corny it sounds. I freed Corypheus, I helped Anders, and now I’m helping to end it all. Everyone is looking at me like suspiciously, smiling and laughing and being an actual decent person for once. No surprise in there, I acted like a murderous bitch for months. Not intentionally, but I still did. One recruit fell to his ass when I patted his shoulder today, trying to reassure him of tomorrow, and it was actually quite hilarious how he tumbled away and run straight to the Commander’s tent in panic. There’s a decent chance he shat his pants as well, so I’m quite proud of myself. For the first time in years I feel even a bit like the Champion. Just a tiny bit, but it’s enough for me.

 

I spoke to Varric just now. Another thing I’ll never forget about today: his smile when I promised him that after tomorrow we’d have adventures, drinks and Wicked Grace again, just like we used to. You know that normally he’s in total control of his emotions and body language, and that there’s something special when he just can’t control himself anymore. Today was one of those moments. He was so damn happy I thought he’d start singing and dancing! I really missed this. I’ve spent too much time being so sad and wallowing in self-pity, I want it to stop. I might need a little help, but I will.

 

Hope to hear from you soon.

 

Your loving and overjoyed sister,

Marian

 

* * *

 

 

_August, 9:41_

 

Bethany,

 

Marian didn’t make it. I’m so sorry, Sunshine. I really am.   

 

I miss her. She was special to me too.

 

Varric


	4. Bethany

**i.**

 

Oh god.

 

No no no no no _no_.

 

She counted the words, one two three – twenty two words and her only family in the world was gone.

 

One short, shitty letter.

 

What happened? What the fuck happened? Did she suffer? Was it quick?

 

Did she die happy?

 

_Oh god._

 

**ii.**

 

She was stupid, she knew it. Stupid, naïve little Bethany.

 

She had been _furious_ , she really had. About how her last living family member was in love like a foolish maiden in all those Varric’s dreadful stories, how she’d been so blind and so in love, and then Bethany’s home had been destroyed, just when she’d been actually thinking it as a home instead of a prison.

 

Later the fury turned into anger and bitterness and regret and longing, and she just couldn’t write her back. It hurt to know how she’d hurt Marian and how Marian had hurt her, and she just couldn’t.

 

Bethany wanted to be there to greet Marian when she’d come back home, hug her and apologise and say what an idiot Sunshine had been and everything was going to be alright.

 

Marian was always indestructible, she always made it. She had fought dragons and orcs and the bloody Arishok and she’d always made it, until suddenly she didn’t.

 

Thank the Maker mum was already gone. No parent should have to lose two children.

 

There was probably no one to bury Carver or Marian anyway.                                                       

**iii.**

 

She doesn’t even really remember what he looked like, to be honest. Dad was always kind and patient, but too nervous and scared for the things he could lose. He was always looking over his shoulder to see if someone would take him and little Bethany away. Dad always made stars in the ceiling when she and Carver were scared at night. Those are the things she does remember of him.

 

Then Carver was gone. He was the second part of her soul, the one who always understood her, the one who wanted to be a knight to protect Bethany from the world that hated her. People didn’t always understand him; he wasn’t special like Bethany or odd like Marian, and that’s what people treated him as. The third Hawke sibling, the extra child, the boring one. Those people never knew how Carver cared for his entire family when a plague hit the village, or how he slept next to her for weeks after her magic manifested and she cried every night, or how he was the one who took care of their dying father when their mother couldn’t and his sisters were too numb.

 

Third was mother. Noble, elegant mother, who taught her children proper manners in their dirty little hut and wore her best gown when they had to escape yet another village, but never once complained. She was a horrible cook, a wonderful singer, a devoted wife and mother who lived for her children. She was never the same after her baby boy died right in front of her eyes, and there was nothing her two remaining children could do.

 

Finally there was Marian. Bethany loved and hated her at the same time, the woman who did everything for her family and in the end left her sister all alone in her broken Circle. She was everything Bethany was not, and sometimes they detested each other more than anything in the world, but they were family, and that always came first. Except when it didn’t, when Marian decided to finally be a hero, and for that Bethany hated her more than ever.

 

**iv.**

 

“What?”

 

“She’s gone. Marian died.”

 

Bethany repeated those words for the third time without looking back at Aveline. From the corner of her eye she saw the frozen bodies of her only friends left, two sets of green eyes staring at her.

 

“How?”

 

“Don’t know.”

 

It was almost refreshing if it weren’t so horrible at the same time. Bethany was so used to the meaningless condolences and unwanted pats on her back, like she was and always would be the fragile little girl she used to be so long ago. No matter that she’d seen her other half crushed to death, her mother mutilated body, or how she had defended herself against kidnappers and assassins in the hellish life at her new home, she still was the sweet young woman to the world, who finally lost the last living member of her family.

 

But Marian wasn’t just her family.

 

She was also part of theirs.

 

Aveline, who despite all her complaining always went along with Marian’s bullshit and protected everyone until the end. Merrill, who didn’t even care or realize that their lives were fucked up and cheered them along even when surrounded by all the bloody mess that was their life. Bethany, who didn’t even talk to Marian.

 

Merrill’s weeps filled the room while the other two women kept silent. Aveline still continued to stare at Bethany like a statue, not fully understanding what was happening or just stubbornly denying it. 

 

None of them had seen Marian in years, not to mention to mention spoken to her. The only thing they knew were the letters she sent to Bethany, but she never shared those apart from her sister’s general whereabouts. Partly because they were sent to Bethany, partly because she felt ashamed of her own behaviour towards Marian, and partly because she didn’t want anyone to know how broken her sister and their Champion had become.

 

It was gentler that way, Bethany had though. To let them live in the illusion that Marian Hawke was still the same army of one, the same invincible killer, the same wonderful bastard she used to be. Bethany knew the truth, but sometimes she wished she didn’t.

 

Aveline and Merrill only remembered the witty sister they had, full of life and love and terrible ideas. Most likely both of them suspected the truth, but neither of them had to read those damn letters or live with the guilt of abandonment. Bethany envied them for that: they still remember their sister as she used to be, something she just couldn’t do, not anymore.

 

She watched as Merrill laid her head on Aveline’s chest, how the latter gently smoothed her back, while Bethany sat across them alone and stoic.

 

She had paved her path. She chose to be the fool. She deserved to sit there alone without comfort.

 

Aveline turned her big green eyes to her, other hand still protectively on Merrill’s back, and extended the other towards Bethany. An invitation.

 

She took it.

 

**v.**

 

The house was still hers, but barely. Technically it belonged to the city now, but no one dared to step into their Champion’s house, just in case if she ever came back. Bethany hadn’t stepped a foot in there in years, never wanted to. It wasn’t her home, not really. She belonged to the Circle, not to the bloody memorial for her mother and her lost noble house.

 

From the house she only took little things with her, like her mother’s beloved hand mirror and her own spell tome. She knew the tome by heart, as it was the very first thing she’d bought herself in Kirkwall with the money she’d earned. She still remembered how proud she was about it; not about being a mercenary, but about having something of her very own. As a child she used Marian’s hand-me-downs, which were almost always someone else’s hand-me-down to begin with. Her first staff was dad’s old one, too big for her, but it had been hers. She wondered where the staff had ended up eventually; burned somewhere in Ferelden, probably.

 

It felt so odd to see how little of Marian there was left. Her sister had always been the type to immediately spend her well reserved money on ale, gambling and silly gifts, so she’d never really had many things of her own. Bethany smiled; Marian could be a selfish bitch when she wanted, but only after she’d taken care of her family first, made sure they were well fed with a roof without holes above to sleep under.

 

Even Marian’s room was practically empty. There was a box full of a strange assortment of little trinkets they’d found on their adventures, a few books, and a lute. Marian was absolutely horrible with it, but Anders had been even worse. It was pure torture to be anywhere near the Hawke Estate when the two of them were in a good mood and decided to terrorize Hightown with all the windows open, their unsynchronized voices singing obscene songs as loud as they could giggling and drunk.

 

It was absolutely horrible and the absolute best at the same time.

 

They were really happy, Bethany thought at the time. A strange pair, that’s for sure, but so happy. Bethany had been jealous of them, but in the end she was turned out to be the lucky one.

 

Funny how time works. She used to love both of them, then she hated them and the entire world with all her broken heart, and now she smiled at a damn lute like an idiot.

 

Later in her quarters she tapped the lute quietly, not quite sure what to do, and just remembered.

**vi.**

 

Most people had already found out, but most people were just as smart as not to try to console their famously reticent acting First Enchanter.

 

She walked to the fireplace and took a tiny wooden mabari from its cold mantel. It was an ugly and crude little thing, but to her it was the most precious object in the whole wide world, a figure she’d known since the day they were born.  She sat on the elaborate couch in her elaborate chambers, gently cupping the toy in her hands.  

 

Eleven years.

 

“I miss you”, she said to the memento in the empty room. “I miss you so, _so_ much.”

 

Father’s gentle smile was long since forgotten, but nothing, nothing, could erase her brother’s twisted body and slowing breath from her memory, nor his embarrassed stammering or how easy it was for Marian to enrage him. Bethany always had to break them up, Carver red from anger and their sister still teasing him with a fond smile on her battered face. They made up for a few days, then fought again, and again, and again. Still, Carver was the first one to strike when a merchant had his hand under Marian’s torn blouse, his short limbs furiously striking with the vigour and inexperience of a ten-year old. He got beaten up, of course, but Marian kept talking about it to anyone willing to listen with great pride up until the moment her brother wasn’t there anymore to protect his sisters like he always used to do.

 

“And I wish that you and mum and dad and her found each other again,” she said to the token, still not ready to put it back to its rightful place on the mantel to watch over her. “Take care of her. She needs someone to keep her out of trouble, even in the afterlife”, she added, wishing with all her heart that it would all be true, that her family would finally be together again even without her in it.

 

She only had Aveline and Merrill left in her life. The Circle both respected and feared her, for she was not the same sweet girl Sunshine used to be, and most other people just saw another war-mongering mage amidst the rest of them, the peaceful outsiders. She kept herself locked up in a prison of her own making, always knowing that someday Marian would come back and they would scream and shout and be family again, so it never really mattered before how lonely she felt – one day it would change.

 

Now all she had left of her family were a wooden mabari, lute, a silver hand mirror and a distant memory of a kind man.

 

Bethany had never felt more alone.

 

**vii.**

 

He truly was a pitiful sight, the former general of Corypheus.

 

Seneschal Bran was standing on the dais looking as cold as ever, Bethany and the Knight-Commander on his both sides. Samson was kneeling in the courtyard in shackles, his head bent down in defeat and surrender. He still had his broken armour on, and the foul stench reached the dais easily. Apparently no one had bothered to shower him since Skyhold, and Bethany knew for certain that his last meal was days ago.

 

Oh well.

 

Aveline was standing near the crowd trying to keep them back, but that would last only for a while longer. Bethany could barely hear Seneschal’s sentence from all the shouts and insults, and she was standing just a few feet from him.

 

But words were not what they were all there for.

 

Justice was.

 

Their Champion was gone and never coming back. It was not Samson’s fault, and nobody claimed so: but he was the right-hand man of the abomination who was to blame, and it was good enough for them.

 

Merrill was standing just next to the dais, her hands reaching for Bethany’s robes in alarm. Bethany couldn’t hear her, but she could make out a few words from her lips.

 

_No justice. Stop this. Bethany. Mercy. Please. No. No. Enough._

 

Bethany lifted her eyes up from her dear friend, smiled, and nodded to the Seneschal. Bran lifted his hands, and it began.

 

Aveline let the crowd through with their stones and bricks and sticks, took a step back, and looked straight into Bethany.

 

Justice for Marian.                                                                                                                                                      

 

Raleigh Samson was lost to mob until there was none of him left.

 

Merrill’s screams faded into silent sobs when her huge green eyes no longer could find the general. Neither Bethany nor Aveline tried to comfort her: it was too late for that. They all chose their sides. Two of them chose pointless, sweet sweet revenge. Third of them chose otherwise.

 

Marian was never coming back home to her sister, who watched a lynching happen right in front of her cold sunshine eyes.

 

She was not coming back, but neither was the red monster who once smuggled love letters for his best friend.

 

**viii.**

 

Marian was a sister, friend, family, champion, and a leader.

 

She was also a deserter, stranger, killer, gambler, and a brute.

 

And finally, it seemed, a hero.

 

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. They all would be.

 

But not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter; one can only handle so much angst at a time. Not super happy with this, but I've been looking at this chapter for weeks, even before I published the first chapter, and I finally came to the conclusion that I can post this in an alright-condition or I'd never do it. So here, enjoy all the sadness and short paragraphs! 
> 
> Really, when I had the idea to write this and actually make it presentable enought to put it online, I had no idea how dark my soul actually was to make every single character so miserable. Sigh...why am I like this. Next chapter will be longer and happier, I promise.


	5. Varric

**i.**

 

At first Varric was sure he’d hate Evelyn forever, and for a while it truly seemed like it. Varric told her the story of how Hawke played Wicked Grace with her Carta hitmen, and even after Evelyn hugged him for the first and likely the last time ever, he was sure they would never be the same.

                                                                                                                                            

It wasn’t just that Evelyn had left the woman he loved to either at best to certain death, or at worst to eternal torment. It wasn’t either that Varric had for once in his life stopped joking and cried in front of her.

 

It was that for a while Varric had had hope.                                                                                     

 

Of course he was going to mourn and drink himself to oblivion and hate the world for ages, even if he hadn’t spoken to Hawke in years before her death, even if the Hawke lost forever would have been the sad copy of the woman he loved.

                                                                                  

But no. His Hawke had come back at the last moments, showing her famous mischievous grin, the realest smile she had given to anyone in years, with promises of adventures and drinks and Wicked Grace. That’s what he wanted. Some other man might have wished for a nice little cottage, few half-dwarven kids playing with the family dog, but that’s not what he had ever wanted, especially with her. She had promised him what he had longed for years, and for a short while he had everything he wanted.

 

Maybe they could have reunited the old gang again, for old times’ sake, now when Hawke was back to them, to him. He did want to meet the tiny ginger Hendyr, Isabela’s new fancy hat, Fenris’ same old brooding and hopefully some shoes for once, Merrill’s house, even hear Sebastian’s brogue and the same religious chant, for fucks sake. It was going to be just like before.

 

Adventures, drinks, and Wicked Grace.

 

And the following day he had none of it anymore.

 

**ii.**

 

_Harvestmere, 9:42_

_Thank you for being a good friend to her._

_Bethany_

 

**iii.**

It was getting better. He’d already lost her once years ago, he’s used to this. Right? Right.

 

He’d spent far too much of his life thinking about ifs.

 

What if he’d never sought out Hawke, getting her to the expedition, rising her to fame and glory, to become the Champion, to become broken and need of redemption in the form of some fucking personal sacrifice? They wouldn’t have ever met, but she’d be alive and well.

 

What if he’d told her, before Blondie did whatever it was he used to charm her? They never told what happened, just that it happened. Knowing Blondie it was most likely flowers. Yeah, that sounded good. That must have happened. She didn’t care for flowers, but she probably thought the gesture was sweet and fell for it anyway. Again she would’ve avoided the path leading to whatever motivated her to do what she did in the fade, or at least they’d have some time together.

What if he’d been less jealous of Anders and actually spent some time with him and noticed something was off? Would that have helped? Maybe he’d done a good thing, and Anders would’ve become better, and then Blondie and Hawke could have lived their lives happily ever after. Varric would’ve been pissed off, but she’d be alive.

 

What if he’d come up with some crazy scheme to bring the two sisters together? Maybe that would’ve helped too. Varric had a shitty brother, but the Hawkes were supposed to be a team. They _were_ a team, until one of them fell in love with a gentle madman.

 

What if he’d been brave enough to properly tell her on the last day?

 

He wasn’t being fair. Varric liked Anders, he really did. They had good years together, crazy adventures and good laughs.

 

But it was too easy to forget about all that and concentrate on what the other man had that Varric wanted more than anything.

 

**iv.**

 

Nobody at Skyhold mourned her, so he learned not to show it either.

 

To them she was just a character from a story, a former champion, the one who saved their beloved Inquisitor – but not an actual, living person.

 

Varric was a storyteller; it was true. He knew all there was to know about heroes and villains and tragedies and loss, and he knew how to make up all those things. It should be no surprise than Hawke was reduced to the character from his very own work, a living legend and a myth, but not much else. He also knew that she hated that damn book and how people always wanted _that_ Hawke, instead of the real thing. Varric loathed himself for that.

                                                                                           

His friends were sympathetic, but they didn’t know her. He had nobody to remember her with, and he was getting real damn tired of the looks and pats and sorry glances. Bull had probably used a month’s pay for Varric’s drinks at Herald’s Rest; silly and improbable accidents happened in suspicious numbers in Sera’s vicinity, and even Cassandra was actually civil with him.

 

It was pure hell.

 

Maybe not the drinks, though. He _did_ drink a lot.

**v.**

 

“I told her, you know”, he said silently. “At the ledge.”

 

Evelyn’s hands stopped shuffling the cards, but rest of the bar continued its drunken life. The air stank of alcohol, sweat and vomit like it always did, the gleeful voices never stopped, except at that one corner table where the two of them sat in amicable silence and a deck of diamondback.

 

“To be fair it was an accident and really ambiguous, but still”, Varric continued. His eyes were still stubbornly locked to the window’s view of an empty courtyard, just like hers were to the dirty table.

 

“We were talking about going back home to Kirkwall and making it better. Kirkwall’s a shithole, but it’s _our_ shithole. Or was, at least.”

 

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw her hunched shoulders and tight fists, looking nothing like the leader of the Inquisitor she was.

 

Varric was not a bad man, but some tiny bit inside him felt joy at the sight. Evelyn was one of his best friends, now and forever, but the one person he actually cared for more than himself was gone and never coming back, and it was their fearless leader’s fault.

 

He knew the reasons. How the Wardens needed a leader, how Hawke wanted to atone for whatever she felt guilty for. The guilt that Varric couldn’t erase, the atonement that most likely lasted for mere seconds after the rest of them exited the Fade before being ripped to shreds.

 

Nobody understood that, how he felt. He had heard enough condolences for a lifetime, but that’s not what he wanted. He never got to have his great adventure with the love of his life like the characters in his books, never got the chance to fix their home together, never had the last great adventure. Every single one of his future plans were about her, and when she was gone… well. There was not much for the once mighty Varric Tethras left in the world.

 

No. He was not a bad man, and he wanted no revenge, but he wanted Evelyn to feel just a tiny bit of what she had taken from him.

 

“I know you did what you had to, and it was what she wanted”, he said finally looking at her properly. She looked at him under her brows warily, just a bit of hope in her eyes. “But I’ll never forget.”

 

“I know, Varric”, she whispered and continued to shuffle with shaky hands, eyes unable to look at him anymore. “I know.”

 

**vi.**

 

There. Done. No more evil, immortal magisters.

 

Varric was done.

 

Saving the world was fun and exciting and all that, but it’s not like Evelyn or the Inquisition couldn’t manage without him. In the end he was just a clever dwarf with a crossbow.

 

It was time to go home. Alone.

 

**vii.**

 

He left in the early morning while Skyhold still slept, just like the mysterious adventurers in his stories. He’d always wanted to try that, to be frank – he wasn’t too big on goodbyes anyways. He’d have one too many of those lately.

 

Obviously Evelyn was there by the bridge, clearly freezing in the early morning. She still managed a gentle smile from all her shivering.

 

“Of course you were going to sneak out, all secretive”, she said. Varric caught up with her and returned the smile.

 

“Was there ever another option?” he answered with a smirk, because of course he did.

 

“No, I think not”, she laughed.

 

He was going to miss her, that was for sure. He was going to miss her blue doe eyes, and her miraculous mind-reading abilities, and even her nice, soothing voice. She was perhaps an even better liar and a cheat than he was, but this time he wasn’t going to miss that the most. He already had enough wise-cracking, sketchy friends. It was nice to have one who was an actual decent person, for a change.

 

Yeah. She was alright.

 

Evelyn wasn’t going to stop him or even try to convince him to stay, they both knew that. It was time.

 

“I’ll miss you”, she said.

 

“You mean you’ll miss my wits and chest hair, can’t fool me.”

 

“You got me”, she smiled.

 

In all the good stories the sun would rise at that exact moment, but it was still hours away. It was dark and cold as hell, but they didn’t mind. Evelyn stretched out her right hand.

 

“Good luck, Varric.”

 

For a moment he stood still, looking at the hand hovering between them. She tilted her head at him curiously, clearly waiting for something to happen. Varric thought for a few seconds more, before he chuckled.

 

Why the hell not.

 

So he tied his hands around her, just like she’d done to him after Adamant.

 

He wasn’t really a hugger, which was no surprise to anyone. But for Evelyn? Yeah. He might do an exception. Just this once.

 

“I’m sorry for being an ass”, he muttered and felt her smile.

 

“You lost her. I could never blame you for being heartbroken and honest about it, Varric.”

 

Of course she understood; Evelyn Trevelyan was born with too big a heart and too much understanding for selfish people like him, and Varric was more than certain that one day that would work against her. But for now, he was just happy to know that he could still call her friend.

 

“Do write me a daring and stunning heroine in your next book”, she chuckled against his head and patted his back. “She also might have a dashing dwarven sidekick. Just a suggestion.”

 

“I might do just that”, he said and released his grip.

 

Evelyn hung on just a bit longer, but eventually she too had to let go. She brushed off some invisible dust from his shoulder and straightened his collar and nodded in satisfaction. Then she graced him with one of her lovely smiles that had brought the entire Orlesian court to its knees, but Varric knew this was just a tiny bit different from that.

 

It was a smile between friends and family.

 

“Off you go then”, she said and gently rubbed his forearm a few times. “Go have another great adventure. With a few less dragons, if you so prefer.”

 

Varric smirked. “You know, there is a rumour about a nice, big high dragon near Wycome.”

 

“Oh. Is that so?”

 

“If you’re interested in some dragon hunting in the future. Just thought to mention.”

 

“It’s a date.” Evelyn fucking _beamed_. She did love her stupid, murderous dragons.

 

He detested dragons, just like he generously had remembered to mention on a nearly daily basis for the last year or so. But for a friend? They weren’t so bad.

 

Varric saw her shivering even more than before, making little jumps up and down and furiously rubbing her arms. No matter how hard it was to leave now, after talking about books and adventures and dragons, getting her hypothermia wasn’t exactly what he wished for. So he coughed and looked pointedly to the bridge. Evelyn caught the glance and nodded.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Send me a nice, long letter”, Evelyn chuckled with a small voice. Varric squeezed her hand briefly and nodded. He’d do that. Fuck, he’d write her a damn novel if she so wished.

 

“See you later, Your Inquisitorialness”, he said fondly. Not _goodbye_ ; this wasn’t going to be the last lady Trevelyan would see of him, no way in hell.

 

“See you later, Varric”, she answered with an unmistakable sniffle and hunched shoulders.

 

And then he left.

 

**viii.**

 

There she was. Bethany, Sunshine, the last Hawke.

 

She looked older than her thirty years, her eyes no longer warm as sunshine and her famous, beautiful smile all but vanished. That’s what you get for being trying almost single-handedly running a circle for years, he guessed. Bethany was not the oldest mage in the Gallows by age, nor even the one with hierarchical seniority, but she was the only one willing to actually try to get shit done. Half the mages had run away and the other half was seemingly broken my Meredith, and so little Sunshine found herself with a career boost that simultaneously made her smile disappear.  

 

She offered him a cup of tea with a tense smile in her new quarters: Varric’s room at the tavern was not his anymore, thought that needed to change soon, and neither wanted to go anywhere near the Amell estate, and so he found himself surrounded by full bookshelves and all sorts of magical object he had no wish to acquaint himself further. She sat opposite of him on a plush armchair and warily looked at him over the brim of her own cup.

 

“You know”, she started nervously, “she sent me a gift last year. Carver’s lucky charm”, she nodded her head to the fireplace mantel where a single wooden mabari toy stood. It was a little thing, just two inches or so and of crude work, but she still looked at it affectionately.

 

“I thought –“ Varric started and was quickly interrupted.

 

“She buried him, I think”, Bethany continued keeping her eyes still fixed on the carved toy. “She never said. But that mabari – dad made it when Carver was a child – was always in his pocket, until it found me again.”

 

Varric shook his head. “I never… I didn’t know she went back.”

 

“She did”, Bethan nodded firmly. “Marian was… troubled, to put it mildly. Lonely, guilt-ridden, angry. And I never helped her, even when she went to bury my twin.”

 

Varric had seen how the mages and the few remaining templars treated their leader. It was a mixture between reverence and nervousness, and he had heard enough tales of the cold and pragmatic leader of the Gallows to understand where that all came from. Every single soul in the Circle had education, protection, food, integrity and freedom, all thanks to her, but every single one of those souls also knew about the rare smile on their leader’s face, a cold, satisfied smile directed at the bloody mess that used to be Raleigh Samson. She was a fair and just in her decisions, respected by all, but may Maker have mercy on the poor soul who crossed her.

 

There were a few words that Varric could think of to describe his friend, a bright memory from a decade ago in his mind contrasting what she had become.

 

_Troubled. Lonely. Guilt-ridden. Angry._

 

Varric had failed Marian, and he’d hate himself forever for that. However, there was still one Hawke left who needed him, and he wouldn’t fail a second time.

 

“Sunshine –“

 

“I didn’t speak to her in years”, she turned to him, unaware of his thoughts. For a moment Enchanter Bethany was gone, replaced by the young, scared refugee he had first met years ago. She had the same look in her blue eyes, the same look of someone lost and confused and scared. “I was so _mad_ at her. She was off having fun and making a name for herself, while I was locked in the Gallows. And then Anders – and then she left the city and never came back, when my home was destroyed and suddenly people were looking up to me and she wasn’t there for me like she was supposed to be.

 

“She sent me letters, all the time. And every single one of those letters started with ‘Dear Bethany.’ Every. Single. One. I answered at them for a while, but I just couldn’t forget that my own sister just left me, that she let all those things happen, and I never wrote her again. And then she died.”

 

Varric reached towards her and took her shaking hand, wet from tears, and met her eyes.

 

“You were the most important thing in her life, Sunshine”, he said with a tremble in his voice. “You must have known that. The day before Adamant, she said that herself to me. To be fair, she said that the most important thing was ‘obviously herself’, but you came close second. And we all know what that means in Hawke-speak.”

 

She chuckled and swiped her cheek dry with the back of her hand and looked at him with a smile.

 

“Were you there? When it happened?” she asked. Her tone was no longer nervous or blue: just genuinely curious. Varric closed his eyes and nodded, feeling Bethany’s fingers wrapping around his hand.

 

 “Varric”, Bethany started gently. “People didn’t always understand Marian. To most of them she was just a strange woman with sharp daggers and clever words, with tendency to violence and shitty ale and bad decisions. I mean – she was my _sister_ , and sometimes those things were all she was to me too.”

 

She took a deep breath and continued. “But she was never just those things to you, and you never got to say it.”

                                                                      

He chuckled and looked at her, at their Sunshine. As Hawke said, Bethany was always the smart one. She gave him a sad smile and cupped his cheek, her thumb wiping a lone tear from his face.

 

“She died happy”, she said, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as well. “She sent me a letter just before Adamant. It arrived when your letter did, the same daily bunch of letters on my table. I just read yours first”, she said quietly.

 

Bethany slowly stood up and opened the low drawer on her desk, reaching for something he didn’t see. He shook his head firmly.

 

“No, Sunshine. It was meant for you.”

 

“It was”, she agreed and walked back to him with a single letter. “She sent it to me, and thus it is mine to show to whomever I want. And I want you to see it.”

 

_No._

_I don’t want this. I don’t want to see. Don’t make me, Sunshine, please don’t._

 

“I don’t –“

 

“ _Please_ , Varric. She’d want you to read it too.”

 

“I don’t want to know she died happy. I wanted her _not_ to die in the first place”, he nearly shouted in frustration to one of the few people in the world who shared that feeling with him.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead, he took the letter to his shaky hands, and read.

 

**ix.**

 

Winter arrived and with it a certain ship from the seas.

 

They were all there, in the Hanged Man like they were always supposed to be. Isabela had indeed purchases an outrageous hat, but still no pants, to Varric’s amusement. Fenris had discovered an entirely new emotion in his years as a broody freedom fighter: “happiness.” He even laughed a few times out loud instead of his former dry chuckles, and every time that happened the rest of them turned quiet in confusion and stared at him like he had suddenly grown a few extra limbs. Merrill was adorable as always, clearly awed by Isabela’s new hat and oblivious to all their compliments about her work in the alienage. Aveline had slacked off from work probably for the first time in her life, and she seemed quite okay with that. She simply stated that if Kirkwall couldn’t stay in one piece for one day without her it was hardly her fault. Little ginger Hendyr was a bit farther away in Donnic’s lap, after Aveline had banished them to another table after Isabela’s tale about an Antivan silk merchant.

 

Isabela and Fenris had abandoned their respective businesses in Rivain after they got Varric’s letters: his primary entrepreneurship was still his cherished spy network, and a flamboyant pirate and a glowing elf were not exactly difficult to find. Sebastian apparently abandoned his princely duties in a second to take the next ship back to Kirkwall, and well… Aveline and Merrill were always there for Varric.

 

And there they were. The merry gang of misfits, all present but for one.

 

Varric couldn’t help but smiling.

 

_This is it, Hawke. We did it. Just like you wanted: the old gang, drinks, and Wicked Grace, with new adventures to come._

 

“I still can’t believe it! Our very own Hawke being a hero”, Isabela exclaimed. “Did _not_ see that one coming.”

 

“Probably surprised herself too”, Varric agreed and there were nods around the table.

 

“Still”, Isabela said while absentmindedly swirling the whisky in her dirty glass, “I do wish she’d found a little less permanent way of saving the day.”

 

Silence landed around them, the same thought in all their minds.

 

“She was almost forty”, Bethany suddenly laughed, a rare sound for her nowadays. “Thinking of all her enemies and basically every decision she ever made it was a miracle she even made it to thirty.”

 

“Remember when she tried to tame a dragonling?” Fenris asked and sure, they all did. Anders had been absolutely _furious_ – the poor sod had to use nearly all of his lyrium stock healing Hawke after day one of acquiring her new pet. Hawke whined for months about the loss of her great hair, but at least she got to scare Leandra with outrageous wigs for some time. Lady Amell was _not_ amused.

 

“How about her famous suitor at the dinner party?”

 

“Or when she broke into the viscount’s office for ‘the nice wine?’”

 

“Does anyone remember what happened after Hawke ‘accidentally’ kidnapped the duke’s tabby cat?”

 

Normally at that point of the evening all of them would be quite a lot more advanced in their search for intoxication and passing out at the filthy tavern, but that evening was different. Even Fenris was still mostly sober, and that was a rare sight indeed. Donnic and little ginger had left hours ago and the tavern was quieting down except for that one table filled with memories, jokes and tales of their new adventures.

 

When the sun finally showed itself one more toast was proposed for their leader, their friend, their family member – and it was just like she had wished for.

 

**x.**

 

Kirkwall was a shithole, but at least it was his shithole.

 

Isabela, Fenris and Sebastian were gone again: they didn’t belong to the grim city like he did. Aveline and Merrill had made their lives there, Bethany really had nowhere else to go, and so there four of them stayed like they were always meant to.

 

Varric was born and raised in Kirkwall. He had made his career there, met his friends, fallen in love, fallen out of love, fallen in love again, and most of all, it was his home. An ugly, hostile home, to be sure, but hey, nobody’s perfect. A long time ago Kirkwall used to be the pride of the Free Marches, a great port city with a horrible past, and then all the infighting and greediness had reduced it to the state of nothingness. Gallows was already getting better every year, so why wouldn’t the whole city?

 

Varric Tethras was many things. A dwarf, surfacer, storyteller, rogue, scoundrel, merchant prince, member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, and the best friend of the Champion. He was not also one to back down from a challenge, and Kirkwall was a big one.

 

Hell, if Hawke got to be a hero in the end, why couldn’t he? It’s not like he got anything better to do: saving an entire city might as well do as a past time, he thought to himself. No more world in need of saving, no more evil magisters to defeat, and no more Marian Hawkes to love.

 

_It was your city too._

_And I’ll make it better._

 

Varric took a deep breath, his eyes locked on the mighty doors of the Merchant’s Guild, a folder full of proposals and plans for the future in his hands, and took a step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Only a short epilogue left.


	6. Epilogue

**i.**

 

“I know your secret.”

 

Varric glanced at her with his amused lopsided smirk. She did know what she looked like, tipsy and half laying on the table and smiling her wicked smile. She truly did have one, a big, big secret, something she normally would take to her grave.

 

Bethany was gone. Carver, mum and dad were dead. After her fifth drink and reminiscing about their fucked up lives she had critically examined her own life expectancy and lowered it by decades. Yes. She could tell. Tomorrow she might be gone, just like her baby brother.

 

“Oh? Do tell”, he asked and continued writing his next guaranteed bestseller without lifting his eyes from the manuscript. Hawke groaned and pushed his writing hand away from the paper. He tried to start writing once more, but again his efforts were disrupted by a very determined drunkard.

 

“Pay attention to me!” she whined in a high-pitched voice as annoyingly as possible, but her drunken mind couldn’t hold back all giggles and terribly inelegant snorts.

                                                                

Varric sighed but didn’t seem too annoyed by her: probably he was just grateful for her timely and much appreciated interruption from all his work. Who wouldn’t prefer her dashing company and winning smile to some dusty piece of paper? Well, most people, but Varric was never just “most people.”

 

“You’re like a cat, interrupting me like that”, he shook his head and leaned back on his chair. Hawke grinned.

 

“What kind of cat? Dirty!”

 

“Sorry, my bad. Not a cat; even they have better manners than you. A pre-teen.”

 

“You’re one mean dwarf.”

 

“You know you love it.”

 

Varric took his chance to continue writing when Hawke finally stopped sabotaging him. She’d always liked watching him work; no matter how much he always loudly condemned his own works, he never seemed more like himself than with his trashy, wonderful books. She moved her chair next to him as quietly as possible, though clearly not enough judging by Varric’s quiet laughter, half laid herself on the table again and read through the scattered manuscript pages.

 

They sat in an amicable silence, Varric with his quill and Hawke reading what might be his greatest work yet, and she knew it was meant just for her. It was a nice story for once; two protagonists, a pair of daggers and a crossbow, with too many regrets in their pasts and unspoken wishes for their lives. It all starts with a common thief and a faithful meeting, and after all the hardships and great adventures, the two dashing heroes finally get their long-awaited happy ending.

 

“So, Hawke”, Varric asked with a smile. “What was this big secret of mine that you know?”

 

“I know how you cheat at Wicked Grace.”

 

“No shit. Usually it’s your idea to cheat anyway, as you don’t have the necessary skills to win otherwise.”

 

“And I _also_ know that you always give me the bigger share of our ill-gotten goods. You’re a shitty merchant, Varric Tethras.”

 

“Not all of us have to spend fortunes on bribes and bails, Hawke. It’s really not normal as you seem to think.”

 

“But –“

 

“ _Hawke_. Come on, stop the bullshit. What’s my real secret?”

 

She leaned to her elbow and took a good look at him. No matter what she said or did Varric always had the same intrigued look, as if everything she did was always worth his complete attention, and even after all the shared years she didn’t really understand why. Most of the things she did were completely insignificant or deserved only scorn and disapproving sighs, if she was being fair. Even the slightly better accomplishments of her life were not really her doings either; every time she’d had someone watching her back, or acting as a much-needed moral compass, and then she just swept in and got all the glory for their team effort. Varric knew all that, and more, and still he looked at her like that.

 

She shifted on the bench and felt the wet fabric glued to her abdomen, something she’d stubbornly pretended not to notice, but it was time. Varric still quirked his eyebrow to her, waiting to hear her big secret, and so she finally said it.

 

“I know you’re not real.”

 

She said it with a smile, as it was not a sad thing at all. She knew: even at the gentle light of the fireplace with her dear Varric she could remember the talons piercing her petite body, the pain and blood and finally, a sense of worth.

 

Yes. It was a good death, much more than she probably reserved, to leave happy and with a friend.

 

Varric – while not real, real enough for her – put down his pen and smiled back at her.

 

“Thank you for trying, though. It’s a nice memory. Doesn’t feel as bad to go, with you.”

 

“This won’t last that long, I’m afraid. Neither of us are strong enough to keep this up forever”, Varric –the spirit, or demon, she didn’t really care – apologized. She couldn’t help but to glance at her maimed torso that she had already forgotten without the pain in company of her dear Varric, remembering her own death after a moment of happiness. She lifted her blue eyes from her clothes painted red at the sound of his deep sigh, catching the apology in his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry that I can’t help you more”, Varric said. Hawke shook her head.

 

“Nah. This was my big heroic moment. Did everyone else get out alive?” she asked, wanting to change the subject, to have her last moments to be of something else, something happy and hopeful.

 

“They did”, he smiled warmly.

 

She reached her right hand over the table, resting her head on the familiar wooden table that had been the main stage for so many conversations, smiles and laughs, shouts and screams, card tricks and bad ale. Warm fingers wrapped around hers, just like they had on the final night of Marian Hawke’s life, and for a while it felt like nothing had changed.

 

“Sorry for being such a fucking moron”, she chuckled. Varric raised his eyebrow in question, asking for clarification. “For being so dense, I mean”, she continued. “At least at the end I knew, even though it wasn’t that long. And now I know, but it might be a bit late, I suppose”, she laughed sombrely.

 

“Having second thoughts about being a hero?” Varric asked with a compassionate little smile. After a moment of silence the Champion shook her head.

 

“No. Yes. No?” she muttered to herself before looking at the amber eyes. “It’s just that… I never was any good alone. Think I’ll see Carver here? Or mum?”

 

Varric squeezed her hand, answering without words. She nodded without feeling disappointed; it was a long shot anyway.

 

It was just like the real thing, the familiar callouses tracing her scarred hands, the same smell of ink, beer and burnt wood, the same gentle look he used to secretly look at her. Only the colours were a bit brighter than they probably were in real life, but memories were always a bit more than the real thing, anyway. It was a nice change, she thought. His hair and eyes were a bit more golden, his shirt redder and finer, just like she remembered in her own gilded memories. The real world never really gave him what he really deserved, she had always thought, and finally he was just like the Maker must have always meant.

 

“Do you know the song he used to hum? The pretty one.”

 

“This is your memory. Whatever you want, you can have, as long as this lasts.”

 

“Yeah? Everything?”

 

“Everything.”

 

And then he hummed the song, like he always used to do when she needed it, his left hand warm in hers and the right one writing new stories. The Hanging Man was quiet for the first time in its existence, and the only sounds in the world were the crackling fireplace, the scratches of a quill and a beautiful song. Varric lifted his eyes from his story to meet her blue eyes one more time smiling that special smile reserved just for her, and it was everything she could’ve ever wanted.

 

But even the best of dreams don’t last forever, and eventually the Fade swallowed her back to its sickly embrace.

 

**ii.**

 

The funny thing about Fade is that it both is and isn’t, just like everyone and everything in there.

 

Except for her.                                                        

 

The Nightmare was an ugly son-of-a-bitch, even when its legs too long had stopped moving and its thousand eyes shut for good. It wasn’t exactly the company she was hoping for; if she was the Champion, there would be a feast and songs and everything nice to celebrate the victory.

 

But she was just Hawke, trapped in a fucking ethereal realm with literally no living soul in any direction to infinity.

 

Time also worked in a funny way: everything happened and also didn’t happen all at the same time, at least to those who belonged there. Unfortunately she was just flesh and blood, an alien who didn’t belong – was it no wonder that seemingly no laws or logic applied to her there? She had next to no knowledge of the Fade (she really should have listened to Bethany or dad or Merrill more; maybe next time), but to her it seemed like even the world around her didn’t know what to do with her, so she just… was there. The Hanged Man was already a distant memory, long forgotten and replaced by much more painful thoughts.

 

She didn’t die; that much was clear. She _should_ have died; that much was just as clear. Goddammit, but did it _hurt_. The Nightmare didn’t go down without a fight, but neither did she.

 

So there she was, bleeding to death, and had been for who knows for how long.

 

In the real world it should have taken an hour, tops, before Marian Hawke was no more. Sure, in the Fade time didn’t work as in her world, but in her final moments she had already composed her own eulogy, mentally written touching letters to Bethany and Varric and solved the Mage-Templar War. So no, it really hadn’t been just an hour.

 

Marian sighed. This is what she gets for trying to be a good person for once. Eternal torment and dying forever; she really would have preferred to die in painful, but quick act of glory, but you don’t always get what you want.

 

Still, it was good. Really, it was. The rest had gotten out, and that’s what matters, right? Right.

 

Hopefully Bethany got her letter.

 

**iii.**

 

She could just end it, if she wanted.

 

It was possible to die in the Fade, even she knew that much. If the Nightmare had just neatly cut of her head in a second, that would’ve been it for her. Instead she was just dying and dying and dying, but it didn’t have to be that way. Her daggers were stuck somewhere in the Nightmare far away from her, and she had no strength to drag her dying body that far, but she could just stick her hands to the gaping wound and finish it.

 

But that wasn’t a very heroic ending, wasn’t it? The mighty Champion dying with a hand stuck in her own guts?

 

No. That was not it.

 

She just wasn’t that brave, never had been.

 

**iv.**

 

She had no idea how long she had been lying there in her own blood, just listening to her own shallow breaths and the silence, before it came.

 

She was so tired, had been for a long time. There were no more new thoughts or ideas, no more memories to go through. It felt as if she’d just been left behind and been in the Fade for a century, but she didn’t want to think about it anymore.

 

The thing got closer without taking a proper shape, but she wasn’t that sure it was true either. After being in the ethereal realm for so long such silly thing as shapes and forms and colours were being lost to her; at least the blood was still red, and that was the only constant in her mind.

 

“What the fuck are you?” she muttered but couldn’t help smiling. It had been so long since she’d experienced something new, and it didn’t matter if the shape was a spirit or a demon or just a very nice dream.

It kneeled beside her and brushed its fingers against her cheek and she couldn’t help leaning in. She felt something, something nice and warm and firm and real and nice and secure, and to her it was everything.

 

“I’m here to get you out”, it said with a gentle voice. “A spirit told us where to find you. Spirit of compassion, I think. Said you were talking something about Wicked Grace.”

 

“I owe a game”, Marian smiled. “I’m a bit late, I think.”

 

It smiled back at here, and oh, was it the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

 

“Let’s get you home. She got the mirror working, you know. Took a while, but she finally did it.”

 

She just listened and closed her eyes, listening to the tender voice and feeling like she could finally dream for the first time in a long, long while.

 

“Let’s get you home, Waffles.”

                                                                

And so they did.                               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I totally abandoned all my responsibilites and went travelling. Good times. 
> 
> So this is it! My first ever published (and finished, actually - I'm great at abandoning whatever it is I'm doing) fanfic. On my first playthrough of the game I did leave Hawke in the Fade (I just couldn't kill Alistair), and it was horrible, and seeing Varric's reaction was horrible, and I will probably riot if Hawke doesn't miraculously survive the Fade in DA4. That's probably my second biggest wish for the game, just after Varric being an actual LI. Good storyline and gameplay would also be a plus, but clearly these are the two most important issues. I'm also looking forward to seeing Iron Bull again for... reasons. Right? Right... *ahem.*
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading!


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